


Hot Love

by thecrowsdaughter



Series: Hot Love [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beta Mary Morstan, Blood, Blow Jobs, Bonding, Bottom John Watson, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Come Marking, Comedy, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Smut, Fucking Machines, Johnlock - Freeform, Knotting, Light Angst, M/M, Male Slash, Masturbation, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Omega John Watson, Omega Verse, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Toys, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, Sort Of, Swearing, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Top John Watson, Top Sherlock, Topping from the Bottom, ermahgerd so many tags, mention of MPREG, sad wanking, unsatisfactory orgasms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 10:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15240951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecrowsdaughter/pseuds/thecrowsdaughter
Summary: John decides he'd like Sherlock to share his heat with him. Smut ensues. And a bit of disaster. And then more smut.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I'd never read Omegaverse until recently and when I did, I had to write this. This clearly isn't the follow up to Double Or Nothing, but it ate my brain. 
> 
> The Non-con is a section with Mary and it's preceded and ended with three little dashes ---. That section is called Blinded. You can skip it if you don't want to read it and I'll precis it at the end. It's not awful-awful, I am a smush-monster, but this is omegaverse and, well, shizz happens. 
> 
> This isn't betaed and so if you spot any howlers, tell me. Otherwise, this is 27k words of mostly dirty smut. There are 4 parts to the story and I'm going to post them all tonight just because.

Part One: 

 

 **i. Loving Sherlock**  

John Watson liked to think of himself as a pragmatic, capable man. He was widow. He was a father. He was an Omega. And, since his wife’s death, and no matter how stressful being a single father was, he worried about his daughter not having a sibling. 

When John went to see his own GP, and he spoke about his concerns for Rosie growing up as an only child, she detailed his sexual past. As a youth, he’d taken suppressants until he was free of his father and his father’s parochial views on first and second genders. From there, he’d gone to Uni and his love affair with Beta girls, and the likelihood that they’d never get pregnant, had taken over. He kept on taking the suppressants. When his sister came out, John had pushed down his own desire for his own gender and became a creature of habit.

The army had brought with it John’s first experience of dating an Alpha: James Sholto. Their relationship had been doomed to impermanence; a moment of love in a bleak, relentless desert amongst men who might die at any moment. When death and destruction were so close, a soldier focused on the moments of happiness and not on whether they would last back on civvy street. In the end, the rawness, the despair, caused by Sholto’s fall from grace and John’s injury had been simply too destructive for their love to last, especially when that love was as fragile as a rose blistering in desert fire.  

In terms of Omega heat, John had relied on his chemical safety blanket to hide him from its rigours. In fact, John’s first heat had taken place after he was sent home injured, and his rehab centre allocated him a therapeutic Alpha: a man who’d looked politely bored but had a nice, hard, thick cock. 

When John met Sherlock, he’d started the suppressants again. The Alpha scent of Sherlock had intoxicated him; he smelt of cleverness, occasional moral turpitude, and dirty sex. John Watson wanted all of it.  Sherlock wanted none of John, or at least that’s what he’d said. However, John had sensed Sherlock’s arousal no matter how much Sherlock tried to mask it. But, in the end, John was too scared, too wounded, and too ready to be pushed away. Lust turned to love, and that love had become too important to risk.  The suppressants and a constant stream of Beta women kept John’s libido in check. Just. But still, John had _loved_. 

Sherlock’s death had triggered John’s second heat. He’d forgotten his suppressants, just as he’d forgotten almost everything but pure, sinking pain. In the end, John picked up a bloke from Grindr, wrapped industrial strength condoms around his Alpha cock, and ridden him until a broken, heat-ravaged John Watson had cried with exhaustion and sadness and sheer bloody desperation. Because, _still_ , John loved. John and the stranger went through three heats together before he’d dusted off the remainder of his life and started his suppressants again.  

Mary was a Beta. She was different; she was fertile, and she acted more like an Alpha than most Betas ever dared. She’d tempted John in a way he thought he’d never be tempted again. When Sherlock returned, in a fit of pissed off fury, John had stopped his suppressants and started on ‘Alpha’ hormones until Mary fell for Rosie. Afterwards, as his and Mary’s relationship had yawned apart, John quietly started the suppressants again. Mary hadn’t noticed. No one noticed. Not even that one.

When Mary died, John had stopped the suppressants again with the intention of hooking up with his Grindr heat buddy. His heat never came. As John’s heartbreak eased and his relationship with Sherlock healed, John lost his interest in casual hook-ups. John and Rosie had moved to 221C Baker Street and they shared their days with Sherlock. 

After a year, John began to feel the tell-tale signs of his impending heat. His GP told him to have at least one heat while he decided what to do about possible procreation since his fertility was likely to be low.

John thought about Sherlock.

Indeed, for a week, John thought of nothing but how to ask Sherlock if he’d share his heat. And, for the first time in a long time, John started to feel happy. Aroused. _Ready_. He estimated his heat would start in three weeks’ time. John did not intend to spend them, or his heat, alone.   

 

 

**ii. Loving John**

Sherlock Holmes liked to think of himself as a man whose mind ruled his body. 

Though he was an Alpha, Sherlock had always been atypical in many respects. When he was seventeen years of age, he’d mastered self-control during his ruts. He’d kept his private life strictly private, even from mummy. When he was twenty-one years of age, Sherlock had shared his boyfriend, Alex’s, heat and the sex had been so intensely pleasurable it’d rivalled only the purest of drugs. Indeed, it might’ve been truly intoxicating had it not been for Alex’s subsequent behaviour.  As heat cooled into the everyday, and Alex’s view of Sherlock’s charms became less about his irrepressible cock and more about his personality, Alex had loudly looked elsewhere for love. 

Two weeks after his relationship with Alex had fizzled into nothing, a man, Peter, who’d heard about Sherlock’s irrepressible cock, asked him to share his heat. In the spirit of experimentation, Sherlock had agreed. Four days later, Peter had fancied himself in love and Sherlock had been utterly appalled. In retrospect, leaving Cambridge and his possible life in academia was an overreaction on Sherlock’s part, but it had succeeded in removing Peter from his life. 

Until John Watson appeared, Sherlock had viewed sex and his status as an Alpha to be useful only in the acquisition of drugs, information or other such benefits. Sherlock had not only doubted the existence of love, but also that sex would ever appeal beyond the need to bring his transport, his body, back under control.  For good or ill, drug abuse had made his cock less irrepressible and more unresponsive. 

When John Watson had come into his life, Sherlock started to view sex differently. In a matter of weeks, he’d longed to kiss, caress, and make love to John. Fantasies about John’s heat had become Sherlock’s key masturbatory aid, and he had to develop his own aftershave to mask his own arousal. After a matter of months, Sherlock had realised he was in love. He’d started to steal items of John’s clothing and smelt them, slept with them, and treasured them. When Sherlock had jumped from the roof of Bart’s into a life of undercover work and assassination, he did so with one of John’s jumpers, two of his t-shirts, a pair of his socks and three pairs of his pants. 

Before the fall, John had taken heat suppressants and so Sherlock was spared the indignity of resisting John at his most tempting. When Sherlock had returned to London afterwards, John was with Mary, and, soon after, the heat suppressants were gone. Whatever self-control, whatever strength Sherlock had thought he had, was tested. After one particularly close shave, when a case had finished only just before John’s heat began, Sherlock’s rut had been triggered, and he’d nearly rubbed himself raw with several newly acquired items of John’s wardrobe. Eventually, Sherlock had cracked before his penile skin did. He found a surprisingly nice man on Grindr, who’d wrapped Sherlock’s cock in industrial-strength condoms and ridden him like a man possessed.    

When Mary died, Sherlock’s heart had ached for John’s loss and for his own. He’d liked Mary. Respected her. Loved that she looked after John and that she made him smile. When she was gone, Sherlock discovered Mary had taken his best friend with her. The John Watson Sherlock had fallen in love with simmered with controlled, beautiful fury. John Watson’s ghost, dressed in grey grief, had been all uncontrolled rage and savagery, and it was that tormented man who’d beaten Sherlock until he was unconscious. And still, Sherlock had _loved_. 

With time, the wrathful ghost had turned back into John Watson. And, _still_ , Sherlock loved. John hadn’t smelt like John, not for a long time, but it wasn’t unknown for Omegas to go heat-free for several years after bereavement. Only Sherlock seemed to notice that John had been muted: a man in pastel, not primary, colours. Little by little, the colour had come back and so too did John Watson’s delicious, earthy, somewhat wicked scent.

Since he’d moved back in, Sherlock noticed the tell-tale redolent signals that John’s hormones were reawakening. However, Sherlock pushed it to the back of his mind with the aim of making John and Rosie’s life at Baker Street perfect. In the desire to have John’s scent remain in the building, Sherlock neglected reading the tonal changes in that fragrance. And one should never, ever, neglect one’s beloved.

 

**

 iii.  **Heated Discussion**

 

John’s voice filtered through the flat. “Sherlock?  Sherlock?” Footsteps headed from the sitting room into the kitchen. “Don’t say you’re out.” The kettle clicked on.

“If I was out, John, how would I know what you did or did not want me to say?” Sherlock walked into the kitchen from the hallway.

“Thank God,” John said. He was visibly relieved. He also, visibly, appraised Sherlock from his bare feet and charcoal trousers up to his silky dressing gown and black shirt. “I need to talk.” 

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock scanned John’s appearance for clues. He was dressed in jeans and a light jumper, was newly showered, smelt delicious, and he looked quite wonderful. His calm demeanour was, however, forced. John turned and started to make tea.

“It’s about my heat.” The way John jostled the mugs confirmed his trepidation.

“Your heat?” Sherlock had assumed, until then, that John would deal with his monthly heat with chemical aids. He knew John wasn’t taking them yet, but Sherlock couldn’t see a reason why he wouldn’t start. Unless. Unless. Unless. John’s effort to look nice suggested a date. Who _was_ she?

“You know, right, that I haven’t had one for a while?” John didn’t turn around and didn’t take his eyes from the mugs he was filling with boiling water. 

Sherlock paused. “I was aware,” he admitted. 

“Well, I’ve decided that I don’t want to take suppressants,” John said. He stirred in milk and sugar. He kept his eyes on the mugs as he walked them back through to the living room. Sherlock followed him, sat in his chair and thanked John for the tea placed on his side-table.  John cleared his throat. “The thing is, I’m not opposed to Rosie having a brother or a sister and, if that’s the case, I might need to get my hormones firing again.”

“Okay.” Sherlock’s mind flew in all directions. Of course, Sherlock had been aware of the hateful, reeking Alpha hormones John took in order for Mary to conceive. Because John was such a dominant, strong Omega, Sherlock theorised that John would want to mate with a Beta female as he had before. His heart lurched.

“So, I’ve been thinking about what I can do to manage my heat,” John said. Sherlock took a subtle inhale; John’s heat was three or so weeks away yet.

“I will, of course, look after Rosie for as long as you need,” Sherlock began. “Mrs Hudson will be here and as long as you’re happy to be elsewhere, I think she’ll be relatively…” 

“No, no,” John interrupted. “No. You don’t understand. I don’t want you to babysit. I want you.” 

Sherlock focused on John, who met his gaze with a frown. “You? Well, it is, er… I think, well. That is to say that, well, I, um, yes… and no? Where were we?” Sherlock’s mind fizzed. Did John want his mind? His body? Oh God, Sherlock thought, _please_ want my body and my mind and whatever else you fancy. 

“Sherlock, are you attracted to me?” John crossed his legs. His V-neck jumper was dark blue, and it made John’s eyes look like stormy seas. John’s hair shone silver and gold in the strengthening spring sunlight. Sherlock had loved John Watson for so long that unrequited love was now just another facet of his personality. 

“I still consider…” Sherlock started. Did he want to reanimate his old lie? 

“That’s not what I asked.” John frowned and closed his eyes for a moment. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, focusing once more on Sherlock. “I’m asking if you have any sexual or romantic attraction towards me.”

“Do you?” Sherlock replied. “Towards me?” 

“I knew you were going to sodding deflect.” John grinned. “You know damned well that I fancied you from the minute we met.”

Sherlock nodded. John’s scent of arousal had been hard to miss. But, since Mary, things were more complicated. Damn, things had always been complicated. “And now?” Sherlock asked. 

“It took a while.” John shrugged. “Mary was good for me. She got me over you, you berk. But since, well, my old feelings have come back.” John looked down at his knees. “The truth is, I’ve remembered what it is to want you. 

“Oh.” Sherlock’s heart was a machine gun and it rat-a-tat-tatted through his body. Blood rushed to his head, to his heart, and to his groin. “I never forgot.”

“Forgot what?” John asked. When his gaze met Sherlock’s it was electric blue, and, oh, Sherlock’s chest felt as though it’d explode.  

“What it’s like to want you.” Sherlock’s hushed voice splintered with emotion.

“I thought so.” John grinned. “Alpha arousal is a bit whiffy.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but blushed all the same. He made a mental note to invent better masking aftershave. 

“I like it,” John said. “It makes me feel good, ‘specially since, well, y’know.” John smiled a big, warm smile that suggested he was, indeed, very pleased with Sherlock’s attraction. “And since I know you’re interested, and you’re my best mate, and I trust you, I thought I would ask you if you’d look after me during my heat.”

Sherlock inwardly sagged. John trusted him. He lusted after him, but it was Sherlock’s friendship that was most important. Of course. It was sweet, in its own way.

“Of course, and you’ll be quite safe.” Sherlock flannelled with all his power of flannelling and hoped he’d be able to keep his promise when he said, “I have exceptional self-control and I can promise not to lay a finger on you.” 

John sighed and closed his eyes again. He shook his head, smiled and opened his eyes as he leant forward in his chair. “Sherlock, I don’t want you to protect me during my heat. I want you to have sex with me.” 

Sherlock released an exhale he didn’t know he’d been holding in little bursts. Then he stopped breathing entirely. After several gasping moments, John dove towards him and landed between his knees.  

“Come on, Sherlock, deep breath in.”

Sherlock tried and took in a little air, then choked as it hit the back of his throat. He coughed and wheezed, and John squeezed his knee and looked at him with a kind, amused expression. After a while, Sherlock’s self-control kicked in and he forced himself into a more regular pattern of respiration. 

“Good,” John encouraged. “It’s all okay, just inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth.”

Sherlock leant back in his chair and looked down. John’s lips quirked into a smile and it was impossible not to return it. “Sorry, John, you surprised me,” Sherlock said. “You don’t normally ask me for intimacy.”

“I know,” John said. “And I apologise. You told Mycroft you weren’t alarmed by sex.”

“I’m not.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand, which was still draped over his knee. “Not usually. I mean, I’ve been propositioned for sex before. Just not by you.”

“I’ve propositioned you,” John replied. “I did the first time we met.” 

“But you didn’t ask me for sex,” Sherlock clarified. “You’re John. You don’t ask me for sex.”

 “Is that an issue?” John asked. “Have I overstepped the mark? Shit. I mean, look, if this is going to make things awkward between us, Sherlock, then I’ll withdraw my offer and we’ll continue as we were. You’re my first choice, but if you’re not happy…”

“I want to do it,” Sherlock said quickly. The thought of John having sex with another Alpha, anyone but him, was too much to bear. 

“Have you ever had sex with someone in heat before, Sherlock?” John asked. He sat back in his chair and took a quick sip of tea before he continued, “It’s quite an intoxicating experience. I mean, you’re right that your self-control was what made me think of you. But, all the same, it’s going to need some degree of experience, I suppose.”

“You won’t be my first,” Sherlock admitted. “Just because I live in a relatively celibate way now, does not mean that it was always the case. However, I want you to know that the men I’ve shared a heat with before were just men.”

John let out a short laugh. “What am I then?” 

“You’re John.” 

John smiled and shook his head. He clearly didn’t understand. 

“You’re special,” Sherlock said. “You’re my best friend. I care for you with a depth of affection I didn’t have for them.” And, oh bugger, he wanted to tell John that he loved him with every ounce of reasoning, or anything else, he had, and even some more besides. 

“I know. And that’s why I want you to think about it,” John said. “I know you’ve said yes, but I think we need to sit on the idea and talk about it. We’re not kids; we can be grown up and sensible about it.”

Sherlock carefully did not say that his mind was full of things that were, a) not sensible and, b) were only grown up in as much as they would’ve made his teenage self blush.

“What about Rosie?” Sherlock asked. Childcare was the most adult thing he could think of.

“Rosie’s going to stay with Harry and Mrs Hudson is going to her sister’s place,” John replied. “All sorted. Did you have any, y’know, questions?”

“About Mrs Hudson’s sister?”

“About my heat, you twerp.”

Sherlock searched his brain high and low for a question that wasn’t related to how filthy John Watson was in bed, how horny he really got, and how many times he liked to be penetrated. “What about after?”

“After my heat?” John’s eyebrows so high they’d almost disappeared into his hairline. “In what respect?”

“Well, we’re going to have your heat together and then, afterwards, what will happen?” Sherlock shrugged and spread his hands wide as if this would, somehow, make his question clearer.

“No,” John said. “You deflected earlier. You’re asking this question properly.” He crossed his arms and nodded in a manner that suggested that Sherlock should just bloody get on with it.

“We will share intimacy during your heat, John,” Sherlock said. He tried to maintain his slightly aloof expression for as long as he could. “We will do whatever is required to make your heat a successful and satisfying one.” Sherlock paused. John nodded. “Afterwards, do you have any expectation or desire for such intimacy to continue?”  

“Would you, please, define intimacy?” John asked. He smirked. _Bastard._

Sherlock sighed. How was John going to believe he was ready to be his heat partner, his Alpha, unless he could answer these sorts of questions? “I would define it by sexual intercourse, other sexual acts, kissing, touching and general physical affection.”

“Go on, talk dirty to me some more.” John grinned. Sherlock closed his eyes. When he opened them, John fully failed to hold in his laughter. 

“I’ll just ignore that, shall I?” 

John, smiling, happy John, stood up and tugged Sherlock to his feet and then into a clumsy embrace. “I never knew how much I liked you talking about sex,” John said. “We’ve never really spoken about it, have we? Anyway, I like the way you talk about it. I like your awkwardness and your blushes. It reminds me that you’re not a typical Alpha.”

“Is that good?” Sherlock asked. Many Alphas did tend to be more aggressive, arrogant, and dominant than the general population. While Sherlock could be all of those things, it wasn’t done with sexual predatory machismo. 

“It’s perfect,” John said. “You’ve got no idea how many arsehole Alphas Omegas deal with on a daily basis. Believe me, I love that you’re nothing like them.” 

Sherlock nodded. He knew his brow was furrowed and that he probably looked as concerned as he felt. However, since he and John had just been discussing having sex with each other, a certain amount of emotional candour was appropriate. 

“Well, if that’s all sorted then, Sherlock, I’ll go get Rosie and we’ll have some breakfast, shall we?”   

 

*

  iv.  **Loving Sherlock (Reprise)**

_Four days later…_

Much to John’s surprise, Sherlock continued to act as normal, despite the move they were going to make. But this normal was also a bit abnormal. Sherlock stopped hiding his affection for John or Rosie. He took out the rubbish, made breakfast and even washed up. Moreover, Sherlock’s occasional uncertainty, tender touches, glances, and little smiles made him absolutely fucking adorable. All at once, John seemed to be as mad about Sherlock as he’d ever been. Possibly more.

The only concern John had was whether Sherlock would be able to deliver in the bedroom. They hadn’t even kissed. John had nothing to go on and in the midst of his heat, he knew he’d be desperate. Sherlock simply had to be to be the man, the Alpha, the situation necessitated: one with an almost constant hard-on, who could fuck until he was unconscious, knot John, and fill him full of spunk until he thought he’d burst. That was what John demanded from his Alphas and he didn’t want to be disappointed in Sherlock’s performance.  

With that in mind, John had a brainwave one evening as he made Spag-Bol. He pushed the Bolognese to the back burner, turned it down and left the spaghetti uncooked while he fed Rosie and got her to bed. After that, he texted Sherlock and told him to be at 221C by half seven. When Sherlock arrived, John dished up and poured them both a glass of wine. 

“This is very intimate,” Sherlock said hesitantly. “Isn’t it?” There again was that edge, that little bit of uncertainty, that made John want to crawl inside that tight, white shirt and never leave. 

“I wanted to talk to you about something intimate,” John said. “So, I thought I’d wine and dine you first.”

“More intimate than sharing your heat?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

“I think so,” John said. He took a mouthful of his dinner, but it turned out to be too big a mouthful and John almost choked and only just managed to swallow it down. “Eat some food first.” John’s voice sounded as if he’d just swallowed a breeze block. All the same, John winked and licked sauce from his lips.

Sherlock looked down at his dinner and began to eat. For a moment, John thought his seduction had failed. But each time Sherlock’s gaze met John’s, the room seemed to get warmer and warmer. By the time their plates and glasses were emptied, Sherlock looked at John as if he wanted to devour him with equal enjoyment. John led Sherlock to the sofa. 

“I was thinking,” John said. “What do you think about a trial run?”

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes shadowed behind heavy lids, his body draped over the settee like a silk sheet. “For?”

“My heat,” John clarified. “Just to see if we’re compatible.”

“We’ve lived together on and off for years, John,” Sherlock replied. “You’re my best friend. We’re compatible. 

“But we’ve never had sex before.” John turned in his seat to face Sherlock. “I’ve had girlfriends I liked as people, but we weren’t that great in bed. For some reason, our chemistry was more about our personalities and not about our sexual needs.”

“So, you want to see if our sexual needs match before I, essentially, give you my cock for three days.” Sherlock’s lips twitched.

“Is that the way you see it?” John asked, a coldness spreading in his belly. “My heat?”

Sherlock shook his head. He looked down and his voice was quiet when he next spoke. “No. I see it as something I’ve always wanted.”

John smiled. He couldn’t help but grin with an intensity that reflected how big his heart had swelled in his chest. “So, trial run?”

“Are you sure, John?” Sherlock asked. “Even more than your heat, this changes things. It changes us.”

“It makes how we feel about each other concrete. Physical. That’s all.” John moved until his lips were just centimetres from Sherlock’s. “Isn’t it worth a try?” John heard Sherlock swallow, heard his respiration rate increase, saw the pale skin of Sherlock’s neck flush as his arousal grew. 

“Your room?”

“My room. That way I can hear Rosie if she needs me.”

“Let’s go.”

 

\---

 

 

 v.  **Blinded**

It’d happened shortly before Rosie was born.

Once Mary got pregnant, John stopped the Alpha hormones. He and Mary had been told that, as her pregnancy progressed, she would become increasingly affected by John’s recovering heats. Even though Mary had been a Beta, John’s oestrous would trigger a response in her that was more commonly associated with Alphas. Her own rising hormone levels would make her more susceptible. It was just one of those things that might, but probably wouldn’t happen. It’d all seemed fine. Then, a month from Rosie’s birth, there was a change.

Mary had gone shopping on the morning of John’s heat, and when she returned he was in its full throes. She’d found John in the bedroom, on all fours, his Alpha dildo already inside him as he frantically tried to satiate his aroused body. John hadn’t seen the paper shopping bag until it crinkled when Mary sat down. 

“I bought you a present,” she’d said, and pulled a box from the bag. From out of that box, Mary pulled a thick, red dildo with a flared base. 

Even in the pangs of desperate heat, John hated the toy. “Too big,” he’d gasped. “Help me.”

Mary hadn’t removed her clothes. She’d just taken John’s Alpha dildo out of his hand and began to fuck him with it, none to gently.

“Not as hard,” John begged. “Please.”

“You can take it.” Mary but not Mary.   

And, God, even though it hadn’t pleased him, John’s heat-ridden body had taken it. John’s consciousness had retreated behind his animal urges until, and only until, he felt the hard shove against his arse and he’d known it was the huge, red dildo. 

“Not that,” John had mumbled. Mary probably hadn’t heard. His conscious mind struggled in the heat fog, the same fog that had taken hold of his body as it tried to accept the painful intrusion. John had screamed in pain.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?”

John had fought his hormonal desires and pulled away from the horrid dildo, little by little. It was almost free when Mary, lost in John’s scent, pushed it back in. John collapsed face first on the bed, pinned like a butterfly as she pushed the toy deep inside him. 

“No, no, no.” As the words had left John’s mouth, Mary had dropped the fake cock. She’d misunderstood his cries.

“Shush.” Mary had pushed the dildo in again. “That better?” 

John’s desperate expression and struggling had been a parody of his own normal arousal. Mary had simply sped up her movements and fucked him relentlessly. 

Despite the pain, John’s heat affected body had responded and he’d climaxed. The journey from physical assault to base physical release had taken a scathingly long time. Afterwards, wordless, John had climbed off the bed on burning legs and escaped to the bathroom.

Mary, the real Mary, had realised almost immediately. Her voice as she’d said, “John?” confirmed it. She’d trailed behind him, plunged into forlorn horror.

John had started to run cold water in the bath. He’d turned his back on her, wet a flannel in the chilly water and pressed it against his sore anus. “Don’t ever do that to me again.” John’s voice had sounded stronger than he felt.

“Oh God.” Devastation. “Oh God. What have I done? You said no.”

“You think?” John had lowered his body into the forbidding water and curled in on himself.

“I’m so sorry. Oh, John, I can’t believe I’ve hurt you. I didn’t mean to. Please, let me make it better.”

After many, many tears, John had eventually relented. He’d known she hadn’t meant to hurt him. He had always loved her. However, their relationship suffered as they’d both retreated, lost behind shame, pain and suffering. After Rosie had been born, they rallied for a while. But Eurus couldn’t have damaged them if the fractures hadn’t existed long before.

John didn’t know why he’d kept the dildo. Grief makes the mourning hang on to even things they hate. It’s easier to push them away, hide them and hope all the memories go with them. And perhaps, eventually, long after Mary was gone, John had learned that it took real effort to stop anger from growing stronger than love.

 

\---

 

 

 

 vi.  **Warming Up Nicely**

 

John’s bedroom at 221C was painted pale blue.  It wasn’t blessed with much natural light, but the presence of Sherlock Holmes laid everything bare.

When John pulled Sherlock into the room, he did so walking backwards, their lips connected and their hands tugging at clothing.  It wasn’t entirely surprising then, that John bashed his heel against one of the legs of the bed.

“Fuh-fuh, ow!” John let go of Sherlock’s shirt and hopped on one foot as he grabbed his injured heel. 

“What happened?” Sherlock watched as John pogoed back onto the bed and examined his foot.

“Bashed my heel,” John admitted. The skin had been scraped from the back of his ankle and left a small, barely-bleeding wound which failed to represent the pain it’d caused. _Fuck it_ , John thought. He let go of his foot, stood, and grabbed the front of Sherlock’s shirt again. “Where were we?” 

Sherlock leant down and, just before their lips met, said, “About here.”  Sherlock kissed well. He kissed as if he had all the time in the world, and that he wanted to taste and caress every millimetre of John’s mouth. It was thorough, arousing, devastating.

“Strip,” John demanded when the kiss ended and immediately worked on his own clothes. John almost ripped the buttons off his shirt as he tugged it open and off. He looked at Sherlock, who pulled off one sock with panther-like grace. The second came off with all the grace of a one-legged rhino.  Sherlock stumbled and fell on his backside with a hard thud. In response, John did what any self-respecting British man would do and laughed.

“That hurt,” Sherlock said, wounded. John tried to school his features into an expression of concern. Sherlock crossed his arms and tried to look furious, an expression undermined by Sherlock’s state of undress, stonking erection, and beautifully kiss-bruised lips.  

“Come here.” John held out a hand and helped Sherlock back to his feet. He yanked at the placket of Sherlock’s trousers and, once they were undone, John let them drop.  Sherlock leant on John as he kicked them and his pants away. “Help me get my jeans off?” John asked.

“Always.” In seconds, John’s fly was unzipped, and Sherlock slipped a hand inside. “John!” Sherlock opened his eyes wide in shock.

“Unless I’m close to my heat, I don’t always wear pants,” John explained. “’Specially not when I’ve got a sexy Consulting Detective to seduce.”

“Consider me seduced.” Sherlock backed John up against the bed and they fell in a heap. “God, I want you.”

“Want you too. Want you to fuck me.” John put a hand over each of Sherlock’s buttocks and pulled their groins together.   

“How are we going to do this?” Sherlock asked. He closed his eyes as John nuzzled against his ear. 

“You’re going to prepare me, make me ready. Use a lot of lube,” John said. “If you move, I’ll fetch it.” 

Sherlock rolled off of John and onto his side. “Condoms?”

“No need. I still get your blood test results,” John replied. After Mary, Euros and Sherlock’s fall off the wagon, rebuilding trust was, well, a process. “You’re clean and so am I. I had a blood test before we spoke about sharing my heat. Results are…”

“…On the fridge,” Sherlock finished for him. “Saw them.”

“You know how to prep me outside of heat, yeah?”

“Of course. I would never hurt you, John,” Sherlock said, and bloody hell his expression was so earnest John’s heart _ached_. “My last boyfriend, Peter, used to fuck himself with a dildo to get ready. He had three in different sizes. He used to make me watch. It was like torture. 

“Maybe he thought it’d keep you interested,” John said. “I’ll let you use a dildo on me if you want?” John looked over at Sherlock and saw his eyes darken with excitement. “You want to?” 

“Maybe,” Sherlock said. “I don’t know. Should I?” 

“How about I get them out and then you can decide?” John said. He pulled a flat, metal trunk out from under the bed, got the key from his bedside table drawer, and opened it up. From inside, he pulled out the canvas bag where he kept his sex toys and lube. “Here.” He chucked the bag onto the bed. 

Sherlock upended the bag. John’s stomach made an unpleasant lurch when a thick, enormous red dildo fell out of the bag and rolled towards him. 

“Don’t look at that one,” John said. He pulled the empty bag from Sherlock’s hands and tried to shove the thing back in.

“John, I’m not that big,” Sherlock said, his voice hesitant. “I know some Alphas…”

“I hate this bloody thing!” John threw the dildo and it bounced off the wall, then hit the floor with a heavy thump. “It’s a horrible monster cock and I don’t want you to be that big.  Never. Ever.”

Silence spread between them like a puddle of troubled waters.

“Will you tell me what happened?” Sherlock said, and, oh, the changing look he gave. John was used to Sherlock’s ever-shifting expression when he deduced but sometimes it still shocked him, all those realisations and emotions that flickered across his face.  

“A miscalculation. On Mary’s part. Pregnancy. Hormones. Heat. A mistake.” John closed his eyes and shook his head. This had all gone dreadfully wrong. Sherlock put a hand on John’s arm.

“Why don’t we throw it away?” Sherlock asked. “I know it’s not that simple. But it’s a start.”

John nodded. He watched Sherlock pick up the awful thing and leave the room with it. He heard the clunk of the bin in the kitchen. He tamped down the urge to take the thing out of the bin, drive it to Dover and throw the bastard thing into the sea.  

“Do you want to stop?” Sherlock asked when he reappeared. His dick was still hard, and he still looked aroused, but John knew Sherlock would stop and get dressed if he asked him to. 

“No,” John said. “I want you.”

“I want to reassure you, John, that I have excellent control,” Sherlock said. He walked over to the bed and sat down next to John. “More than many Alphas. Maybe all others. I don’t know. But won’t hurt you.

John paused. He looked at Sherlock. “I know,” he said, knowing the truth in his own words. “I trust you.”

“I want to kiss you,” Sherlock said. 

“I want you to.”

And this kiss was deeper. It was more intense, though still imbued with the meticulous care of Sherlock’s previous kisses. Sherlock’s hand moved from the back of John’s neck up to the back of his head. The external occipital protuberance. Damned if John didn’t mouth those words into the kiss, and damned if Sherlock didn’t smile in response. He swept his tongue over John’s lips, and John didn’t know who started to tremble but knew he felt steadier then he climbed onto Sherlock’s lap, one knee against each hip. 

“You want you to make love with me now.” John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. “It’s everything I want.” John ran his heads over Sherlock’s chest and the lean muscles that flexed beneath. Poseur. John smiled against Sherlock’s lips and they breathed in others air. Sherlock reached for the lube, and, in seconds, his finger was in the cleft of John’s arse. “Yes.” John stood up on his knees and buried his head into Sherlock’s neck until the strong, Alpha scent made the nerve-endings in John’s skin prickle. 

“Do you know what I smell when I think of you, John?” Sherlock’s finger slipped inside John’s arse and something in John exhaled because this was one step closer to release. “I smell gunpowder and something medicinal, like antiseptic, and petrichor. And none of those things should be arousing, and yet, you are.”

John carded his hands into Sherlock’s hair and tilted his head back. He brought their lips together and moaned into the kiss when Sherlock’s finger brushed against his prostate. When Sherlock pushed another finger inside, they both cried out. John pulled back. Sherlock’s expression was as unguarded as he’d ever seen, and he seemed as overwhelmed by his actions as John was. 

“I need to lay down,” John said, voice low. “My thighs are shaking.” He climbed over, flopped onto his back and, in doing so, his mattress made an unfortunately flatulent noise. “That wasn’t me.”

Sherlock laughed. He crawled over John in a manner which might have been seductive if he wasn’t giggling. “I’ll just take your word for it, shall I?”

“Please.” John blushed. “Now get your fingers back up my arse or I’ll strangle you.”

“Threats of violence too.” Sherlock slipped two fingers back inside John. “I am a lucky man.”

“Oh, fucking hell, Sherlock that feels amazing.” John spread his legs to give Sherlock easier access. “And yes, you are sodding lucky, you wanker.”

Sherlock spread his fingers and, with his free hand, reached for a slim dildo that had been rolling around on the bed. When Sherlock eased the toy inside of John, it was slicked with lube. For a moment, John held his breath but then Sherlock kissed across his chest and tongued one of his nipples, and John gave his body up to just feeling.

“Where are you going?” John asked as Sherlock’s lips moved down his body. He swirled his tongue around John’s navel, then dipped inside and since when was that a hotline to John’s cock? “What are you doing?” Sherlock’s head moved lower, and John arched up when Sherlock kissed along the length of John’s cock. “Oh, God, I didn’t think you’d do that.”

Sherlock looked up at him. “I told you, I’m not the typical Alpha.” He licked a bead of precome from John’s cock before he took the tip into his mouth and gave it a long, pleasing suck. 

John inhaled sharply, eyes open wide. He spread out his arms and gripped the sides of the bed just to hang on as his body arched and tilted. Smoothly, Sherlock pulled the dildo from John’s arse and then slipped it back in.

“Oh, fucking fuck, yes.” John didn’t know whether to thrust up into Sherlock’s mouth or back against the dildo, so he simply writhed on the sheets. Sherlock fucked and sucked him lazily until John was utterly incoherent, and then Sherlock stopped.

“How was that?”

Sherlock’s words brushed John’s collarbone and he held him there for a few featherlight kisses. Then Sherlock’s fingers were between his legs and achingly slowly pressing in and in and in. John cried out as the gentle pressure nudged against his prostate. 

“What are you doing to me?” John’s arse clenched around Sherlock’s fingers and there, there, was the rush he’d only previously experienced in heat. “I want to feel you,” John said. “You need to be inside me.”  

Sherlock withdrew his fingers and crawled back up John’s body. The kiss he gave John was almost chaste but utterly spellbinding its intensity, and, when it ended, they were both silent, just for a moment. John looked down the length of their bodies. They touched at only the tips of their cocks. Sherlock circled his hips closer and John whimpered at the smooth, silky contact. 

“Now, please.” John hoped to encourage Sherlock inside him. 

“I’m worried you might not be ready,” Sherlock said. 

“What part of me begging you to get your cock in me suggests I’m not ready?”

“I mean in terms of prep,” Sherlock explained. “I’m worried about fitting since you’re not in heat.”

“Use a lot of lube,” John said. “Go slow. Do that, and it’ll be fine.”

“Look, I think I might be more than three fingers big. I’m not monster cock big, but then few things are.”

“Few things that aren’t the monster cock, you mean.”

“I don’t want to hurt you and make you think of the monster cock.” 

John raised a hand and stroked Sherlock’s cheek. “You’re nothing like the monster cock.” Sherlock giggled. John did too. “I can’t believe you’ve made me laugh about the monster cock.”

“Are you sure you want me to try?” Sherlock asked when he could speak again. 

“I’m sure.” John lifted his legs to push his bum forward. “Do me.”

“Do me?” Sherlock asked, his mouth quirked back into a smile. He reached for the lube and squirted a good amount into his palm. “Eloquent as ever.”

Nevertheless, Sherlock lifted one of John’s legs over his shoulder, the other over his hip. There was a burst of intimate pressure and a breach, and then John closed his eyes as he lost himself to the pleasure of his body opening up and taking in Sherlock’s cock. John hadn’t had a real Alpha cock in years and he revelled in the warmth, the hard-softness, and the close body contact. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock judder with suppressed desire. Sherlock made several slow, shallow thrusts and John almost screamed with frustration. He wanted Sherlock deep. He wanted to get fucked.

“Sherlock?”

“You feel wonderful,” Sherlock said. “Really good.” His brow was crumpled in concentration.

John grinned. “You too. 

“Yeah?” Sherlock’s gaze flicked to meet John’s and he smiled too. “What do you want?  Hard? Fast? Slow? Gentle?” As he spoke, Sherlock dipped his hips and pushed his cock deep into John with steady pressure. The inexorable sensation bloomed inside John with tantalising pleasure.

“Oh, more like that,” John said. “Heat’s going to be fast and hard, so slow’s fine but firm. Deep. Hmm?”  

Sherlock nodded and, in a slow slide, pulled out of John and then back in. “Right position?” 

“Oh yeah.” John clutched at the sheets. Each achingly slow stroke nudged his prostate and set his nerve endings alight. All of Sherlock’s protection hormones were firing, telling John he was loved, present, and that he’d keep them joined, body and soul. 

“Gah, you’re good. Can’t wait ‘til I’m in heat and you knot me and fill me.” John stroked Sherlock’s face with a shaky hand.  

“What would you like, John?” Sherlock turned his head and kissed John’s palm. His voice was almost breathless and thick with desire. “Do you like your Alphas to rub their seed on you to scent you? Do you like them to bite you? Or fill you and plug their release inside you for hours?”

“All of it. Whatever you want.” John’s response was automatic and surprised even him. He’d always rejected all that stupid Alpha bullshit, but he knew he’d take it all from Sherlock and love every moment.

John’s eyes fluttered as Sherlock drove in again and again. His legs flailed against Sherlock’s body with each precise thrust and he couldn’t bring himself to care. He did, however, weasel his hand between their increasingly sweaty bodies to wrap his fingers around his own throbbing prick. After just a few strokes, the precipitous tingle of John’s building release made him arch his body up towards Sherlock. 

“I’m almost there,” John whispered. His eyes opened wide as his orgasm approached and Sherlock met his gaze with unspoken emotion. Then, and only then, did Sherlock’s movements become a faster and firmer, though each delicious thrust brushed against John’s prostate. 

“Would you like to cover me with your come, John?” Sherlock’s eyes flashed in the dim light. “Scent me as yours. Mark me so everyone knows?” 

“Yes, yes!” John threw back his head, his fist firm around his dick, and slicked their bellies in long surges as his body released years of sexual tension in orgasm. “Wow.” John chuckled. “Wow.”  He pulled Sherlock’s face down into a tender kiss that he hoped would convey how bloody amazing he felt. 

“John,” Sherlock said. His arms trembled. Without a second thought, John wedged one foot against the bed and tipped them over. “John?” Sherlock’s eyes widened with surprise. John sat up a little, wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s dick, and led it back to his hole. He sank down, down until his balls brushed Sherlock’s thighs.  

“My turn.” John clenched his muscles around Sherlock’s cock, then relaxed, then tensed again. “I want to see how fast I can make you come.” He lifted himself with a slow glide and then dropped fast before lifting slowly again, his arse tight around Sherlock. “What do you like, Sherlock? Do you like filthy?” John pushed his fingers between Sherlock’s lips. “Do you like fast?” John rode Sherlock hard and fast for another five or six strokes. “What do you like?”

Sherlock sucked John’s fingers even as he pulled them slowly from his mouth with a filthy pop. “John Watson,” he replied. He planted his hands firmly on John’s hips and encouraged him into a more regular rhythm. “Every time.”

“Smooth.” John leant back a little, so he could brace his hands against Sherlock’s thighs. He clenched around every upstroke and his efforts were rewarded by Sherlock’s mouth dropping open on each and every one. Sherlock was close.  Time to up the ante. John sat up again and started to rub his come over the skin of Sherlock’s abdomen. 

“Shall we sleep like this?” John sped his movements a little and, as an afterthought, fucked his come into Sherlock’s navel with his thumb. “Covered in each other’s scent, marking each other, reeking of sex. Maybe I’ll make you go to crime scenes smelling of my come, Sherlock. Would you like that? Everyone knowing that my Alpha is owned just as he owns me?”  

“John,” Sherlock whimpered. He spread his arms out wide and almost convulsed as he came in a hot rush inside John’s body. John sighed at the contact as he trailed his fingers of Sherlock’s come-streaked skin. “Happy?” Sherlock asked at last. 

“Is it stupid to say I want to keep you inside me?” John’s mouth twitched with his embarrassment.  

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, but I have pins and needles in my legs.” John nodded and flopped on the bed at Sherlock’s side.  Immediately, Sherlock lent over him and pushed two fingers back inside John’s arse as it contracted with loss. John gasped and pushed up his hips. “Shhh,” Sherlock soothed him. He stroked John’s tummy and, slowly, withdrew his fingers. With his own release dripping from his fingers, Sherlock signed his name on John’s belly and finished with an ‘xxx’.

“You know, if anyone had told me I’d let you do that, I’d’ve told them to go get their fucking head read.” John lifted his arm behind his head and used his forearm as a pillow. 

“If anyone had told me you’d let me do it, I’d have suggested the same.” Sherlock leant forward and buried his face in John’s armpit.

“Sherlock!” John giggled. “What have you done to me?” Sherlock dropped onto his side and John tipped over to face him. “Madman.”

“Maybe we’re just old enough and creaky enough to know how special this is.” Sherlock brushed something from John’s cheek and smiled. “Or we’re just more willing to compromise. Or something.”

“I thought you were going to get all wise on me then.” John winked at Sherlock and then yawned. His legs hurt, and his arse was definitely tender. John’s abdominal muscles were complaining at all his clenching and he was hot and sticky and probably stank. It was delightful. New. John simply hadn’t felt like this before. 

“How could I have known?” John pushed a few stray curls behind Sherlock’s ear. “How on earth could I have understood?” 

“Understood what?” Sherlock looked lovely when he was puzzled.

“That this is what it’s supposed to feel like.” John shook his head.

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock pushed himself up onto one elbow. “Like what?”

“Sex. Love. All of it.” John rested his hand against Sherlock’s cheek. “I didn’t know it could feel like that. Like this.” 

Sherlock smiled. “Is that all?” 

“I thought Mary was the one. I was wrong.”

Sherlock snuggled closer. “Not necessarily. You just acted according to the information you had at the time. Besides, I think you met the right person at the right time. Sholto was right for you when you met him. Mary was the right person for you while I was gone. No one ever said it had to last.”

John felt his heart stop in his chest. He and Sherlock had to last, they had to. He rolled onto his back and put his forearm over his eyes.

“Hey,” Sherlock draped himself half across John’s body. “I didn’t mean that we won’t last. I’m not planning on going anywhere, you know. I mean, I think you were always my one, no matter what. I think you always will be.” 

John sighed. It was all Sherlock could offer him and all John could offer Sherlock. Neither of them had the ability to make fate change her mind. “Then that’s what we’ll work with.”

“Good.” Sherlock’s body relaxed against him in a heavy rush. “Sleep now?”

“You want to sleep?” John lifted his arm and looked at his new beloved. “Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?”

“Sex makes me sleepy.” Sherlock’s half-gone voice confirmed its truth.

“Nice to know.” John wrapped his arm around Sherlock and tugged him close.  “Sleep.”

 

*

 

  

**vii. The Heat is on**

 

The two weeks that followed disappeared in a flurry of activity. Lestrade had turned up with a case, which had been at least a seven on the Sherlock-o-meter. John had called it an eight, but Sherlock demurred. After all, the murderer had turned out to be the husband and that, since the victim was female and, therefore, statistically more likely to be killed by her partner than anyone else, warranted its downgrade. It was only _how_ the murder had been committed that ensured Sherlock got out of bed to start with. 

With Sherlock on a case and John sharing his time between babysitting Sherlock and being a daddy to Rosie, there hadn’t a repeat of their pre-heat warm-up sex. Indeed, when Sherlock and John finally returned to 221B Baker Street with the case solved, they did little more than share a takeaway, have a quick snog, and head to their own respective bedrooms for some well-deserved sleep. 

However, eighteen hours later, Sherlock was awoken by John shaking him violently. It was eight in the evening and John smelt _divine_. 

“Wake up, you git.” John shook Sherlock so forcibly he fell out of the bed and landed in a heap. “About time.”

“What’s happened?” Sherlock lifted his cheek from the rug and blinked a few times to focus his eyes. 

“My heat. Started.” John sat on the bed and put his arms around his stomach. “Nearly.”

“Cramps?”

John nodded.

“Rosie?" 

“With Harry,” John replied. “She came and got her. I’ve just got out of the bath. My tummy hurts, I feel sick, and my arse is drooling like a sodding bloodhound.”

“Why don’t we have some toast and some tea, and I’ll be ready when you are?” Sherlock tried to pry his eyes open.

“Only if you make the tea,” John demanded. “And the toast.”

“Fine.” Sherlock wobbled to his legs. He found himself to be wearing pants and, for some reason, a pair of green fluffy socks. Sherlock weaved his way to the bathroom, had a wee, brushed his teeth, and then attempted to find the kitchen. There was an abundance of groceries on the table. Mrs Hudson had clearly stocked up in light of John’s heat. After Sherlock had dropped two tea bags in the toaster and struggled to shove slices of bread into mugs, John smacked his arse.

“Get out of the way,” John ordered. “I’ll do it.” Before Sherlock could react, John had fished the teabags out of the toaster and rinsed the crumbs from their mugs. 

“I’ll go have a shower, shall I?”

“You’ve got ten minutes,” John said as he thumped the mugs back on the kitchen counter.  

Sherlock showered faster than he ever had. He was rinsing his hair when the aroma overtook him; John, John, John. Oh, the blessed smell of Dr Watson swelled Sherlock’s cock in seconds and made his decision to forgo the use of a towel. 

“Oi!” John said when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. “You’re dripping.” 

Sherlock eyed the dark, wet slick marks on the back of John’s jeans. “So are you.”

“Sit down and eat your bloody toast,” John said, working on his belt. He let his jeans fall to the floor as Sherlock prowled towards him. He was less than a metre away when John raised a hand. “No touching. Eat your toast. You’re going to need the energy.” John walked past Sherlock, balled up his jeans and shoved them in the washing machine. 

Without doubt, Sherlock felt wounded. His Omega was supposed to be desperate for him, not ordering him around and forcing trivialities like eating upon him. However, he also knew that John Watson was a force of nature and, like all such forces, he was uncontrollable by man, small child, or woman. Sherlock sat down and picked up his toast. His wet skin slid around on the wooden chair. 

“Now, let’s get some ground rules sorted.” John’s hands drifted to his crotch, and Sherlock knew he was trying to resist the urge to touch himself. “I will not accept you dragging me around, lifting me or treating me like a sex doll. I am a human being and I expect to be regarded as such.”

Sherlock nodded. “I agree,” he said after he’d swallowed his third mouthful of toast.  

“You will not use toys on me without my express permission,” John continued. “Now, what are your thoughts on bonding?”

Sherlock coughed. “If I were to bond with anyone, it would be with you. I would die for you, John, you know that.”

“And you’re the only person I would trust with my life,” John agreed. “But, I want to know if want a bonded relationship with me? And, of course, if you’re not willing to be Rosie’s father too then you’re not the bond-mate for me.” John tilted his chin in challenge.

“All I want from my life is to be with you and your daughter. Well, that and solve crime. And experiment. And study bees.” Sherlock took his last mouthful of toast.

“Bees. Right. So, all of that is fine. Absolutely fine. Do you want to bond on this heat or later down the line?” John suddenly cupped his penis. He squeezed a little and grunted with relief.

“I see no reason why we should wait.” Sherlock lifted his teacup and blew on the still-too-hot liquid. 

“Me either.” John reached behind him and grabbed what Sherlock saw was a blue dildo with a suction cup at its base. Without another word, John sank to his knees, licked the base of the toy and then rammed it against the kitchen cupboard. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock would forgo his tea. John _knew_ he’d forgo his tea.

“I want you to eat a banana and drink your tea.” John lined up the fake cock against his arse. “By the time you’re done, I’ll be ready for you.”  John sank back on the dildo with a long sigh.

Sherlock whimpered. He took a banana from the fruit-bowl and attempted to peel it without taking his eyes from the vision of John rocking back and forth on his knees, pushing the dildo in and out of his arse. John’s backside and thighs glistened, and he made a quiet but throaty noise each time his arse swallowed the toy.

John’s scent intensified, and Sherlock’s cock got stiffer. John’s motions made the cupboard door rattle, and Sherlock took the biggest bite of banana he could. 

“God, Sherlock, I needed this.” John wrapped his hand around his dick. “Doesn’t feel right but it’s enough for now.” John’s hand blurred with frantic wanking.    

“I could help,” Sherlock said through a mouthful of banana.

“I don’t know what you’re saying, but you are finishing your breakfast,” John said. He cried out: clearly the wretched toy had hit the right spot. “I don’t want you passing out on me when I need you to fuck me.” 

Sherlock huffed with displeasure. He decided he hated bananas and was infuriated by how slowly tea lost its heat.   

“Fake cock never feels like real cock.” John’s movements sped up and now the cutlery drawer rattled above the cupboard. “I couldn’t wait though, Sherlock; I’m so sorry.” 

Sherlock frantically chewed the last bite of banana and resolved to drink his tea whether it burned his tongue or not. He paused at John’s cry and looked up to see him shoot semen across the kitchen floor.

“You have until I drink this tea, John, to tell me anything else you need me to know. I don’t know how long I can stop myself from touching you.” Sherlock took a big mouthful of tea; it was hot, but it was bearable. John would need to talk fast. 

“No tying me up.” John knelt on the floor, his head drooped between his shoulders. “No hitting me, spanking me, or any of that. I don’t like S&M and I’m no one’s sub.”

“One more mouthful, John.”

“That was the most unsatisfying orgasm I have ever had,” John said. “I’ve got to have you, Sherlock. Fuck the last mouthful. 

Sherlock’s chair tipped and rolled across the floor when he threw himself towards John, who crawled forward enough for Sherlock to slot behind him. “Bedroom?” Sherlock asked.

“No time,” John replied. “Please.” He lowered his weight from his hands to his elbows and pushed his arse into the air. Sherlock didn’t need asking twice. He slipped behind John, dropped to his knees, lined up his cock, and slid inside. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered as the hot, slick channel engulphed him. He gripped John’s hips and drew back and pushed in slowly. His still-damp skin clung to John’s. 

“Sherlock,” John said, his voice a fragile, desperate thing. “Fast. Hard.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Just fast then. Please, Sherlock.” The pleading tone broke Sherlock’s resolve and he started to fuck John in deep, fast strokes. “Yes, yes, _yes_.” 

The edges of Sherlock’s vision fuzzed into hazy-red and he shook his head to clear it. Sherlock would not let the frenzy of a heat-induced rut to take over and, potentially lead him to hurt John. All the same, within a few strokes, he knew that his hips were taking orders from John’s body and John’s body alone. Their fast fuck was punctuated by only the sounds of slick slaps as skin kissed skin. With every stroke, John made an ‘ah’ sound and, for Sherlock, it was music, poetry, and an aphrodisiac all in one.  His knot started to form. 

“God, Sherlock.” John reached back with one hand to work his cock again, and his hips met each of Sherlock’s thrusts. “I’m close, really close.” 

Sherlock’s knees ached and sweat weakened his grip on John’s hips, but he couldn’t have stopped for the world. At this angle, it would be impossible to bite John’s scent gland in order for them to bond. 

“Bonding. Now or later?” Sherlock asked anyway.  

“Later, later.” John tightened around Sherlock’s cock and his soft cries grew louder. “God, you feel amazing.” John’s voice was as firm as ripped silk rippling in waves to the floor. Sherlock’s knot seemed to push a little deeper with each stroke, but he was shy of forcing it until John pleaded, “Knot me, please, please. I want to feel you, I need to.”

Sherlock put a little more power behind his next thrust in, and John pushed back with equal enthusiasm. They both cried out. Sherlock’s knot had breached the ring of muscle that held it back. He and John were now locked in place and, as a result, Sherlock’s thrusts were shallower but intense in a way that made him feel almost light-headed.

“I’m, I’m,” John’s voice trailed off and his body clamped around Sherlock’s cock. Semen pattered over the kitchen floor and, for a while, John’s arms held. Eventually, as his orgasm continued to wrack his compact frame, John slumped and, in doing so, dragged Sherlock on top of him. Sherlock’s arousal peaked when his cock was pulled deeper and the reflexive contractions triggered by John’s release drew his own climax from him. It felt as though he would come forever, the raw mixture of pleasure and pride roaring in his ears. With the little energy and focus he had left, Sherlock rolled he and John onto their sides, so they could lay in relative comfort while they were clinched together.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” John gasped out as he climaxed again. His body shuddered with ecstasy and he pulled Sherlock’s arms closer around him. “Bugger me, that was great.” John twisted his head for an awkward sideways kiss. Seemingly content, John wriggled against Sherlock’s body and pushed his hips back, which, in turn, shoved Sherlock’s cock deeper. They both tumbled into orgasm again, expressed in nuzzled, moaned chuckles and soft kisses.    

“John.” Sherlock nestled his face against John’s neck until he could almost taste his relaxed satisfaction and simmering heat. The love he had for the man in his arms seemed too big, too strong an emotion to contain. But, all the same, a boy who was taught emotion was a weakness silenced the man who knew it wasn’t. John stirred in his arms.

“How many times can you come?” John tipped his hips back and forth, using his muscles to milk Sherlock’s cock. “I want you to fill me up until it’s leaking out around your knot because I can’t hold anymore. I love feeling full, Sherlock. I want it all. Every bit of you.” 

Sherlock howled when another orgasm ripped through him, and the red-tinted frenzy that lived in all Alphas threatened to bloody his vision. The animal in him wanted to push John down, thrust into him over and over until he came and came, and unconsciousness took them both. Sherlock closed his eyes tight and held on to the man in his arms, breathing in the John Watson who lay beneath the flush of heat. Although Sherlock refused to give in to rut, more release seemed to flow from the last. 

For a while, serenity blanked Sherlock’s mind. John’s calls, however, soon filtered into his consciousness, like sunlight in a shadowy glade. When full consciousness overtook the sublime, Sherlock realised his hip was sore, his arse was freezing, his leg was draped over John’s, as was the left-hand side of his torso. John sounded more and more annoyed.

“Oi, Sherlock, you’re lying on me, you lanky bugger.” Sherlock moaned and struggled to move, an attempt ended when he realised his knot still held he and John together. “Stop flailing. I just want you to move off me a bit.”

Sherlock propped himself up a little. The kitchen floor before them was puddled with arcs of John’s come, and Sherlock’s inner-Alpha preened with the visible evidence of his virile deeds.

“I can feel your smugness back there,” John grumbled. “Stop it. Think bad thoughts; I’m too frigging old to be lying on a kitchen floor.”

Sherlock’s knot, suitably chastened, deflated a little. He closed his eyes and thought of very, very unerotic things, mostly involving Mycroft, until he shrank enough to ease himself free. A steady stream of come leaked from John’s arse and pooled onto the poor, mistreated kitchen lino. Immediately, John reached up and grabbed the tea-towel from where it was draped over the oven door and pressed it against his bum. He held it there while he stood accompanied by many groaning and crunchy noises. Sherlock huffed. It was all very practical, but he’d robbed Sherlock of the erotic, Alpha-pleasing sight of his spunk running down John’s legs. He huffed louder. 

“We’re in the kitchen, Sherlock,” John said. He rolled his eyes, even though his lips betrayed his amusement. “It’s unhygienic and I’ve already got plenty to mop-up.” He motioned to the disreputable kitchen floor. “Get your gorgeous arse up and help me clean up. Then we can prep your bedroom, or mine, so you can do and see what you want.”

Sherlock grumbled then thought about what John had said. Prep the bedroom meant John’s omega side wanted to make them a space, a love nest so to speak. Sherlock shouldn’t get in his way. He pulled himself to his feet. “I’ll do the kitchen. You sort out my room.”

“If you get through with mopping, get us some water and some snacks ready, yeah? If it’s all in the bedroom, then we’re prepared for a while at least.”

Sherlock rubbed his knees; they were dinted and sore from the hard floor. The bedroom was definitely an excellent idea.

 

**


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hooks up with a man from Grindr (previous to when this fic is set). John and Sherlock get it on. Essentially, they will do this a lot. In this ep, they do bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to say, one of the reasons I wrote this fic is because I feel like I'm still trying to get my groove back in terms of writing smut. I got plot-blocked with the follow-up to Double or Nothing, so I wrote this to make sure that I was at least getting some useful practise in. That's what I'm telling myself and you can't stop me.

Part Two:

**viii. Loving John (Reprise)**

 

Prior to John and Rosie moving in, Sherlock had had his final encounter with the stranger from Grindr. Unlike his previous hook-ups, he’d invited Ian Lincoln to Baker Street. Why this one? Well, Mr Lincoln had blond hair, was shorter than Sherlock, and had formerly been a soldier. 

“I’m going to call you John,” Sherlock told Ian once the door to 221B was shut.  

“You can call me what you want as long as you get your dick in me,” Ian had said before he tried to kiss Sherlock. 

“No. No kissing, no biting, no marks.” Sherlock had pushed Ian’s coat off his shoulders. “Follow me,” he said and then led Ian upstairs to John’s old bedroom. Sherlock had stripped Ian of his t-shirt, his jeans, socks and shoes, then pulled off his underpants. “Prepare yourself.” He’d thrown a bottle of lube on the bed. “I’ll get condoms.”

“You don’t need them.” Ian had been coating his fingers with lube. He looked up at Sherlock. “I trust you.”

Sherlock had simply raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be absurd.” Downstairs, he’d grabbed his packet of Alpha condoms, thrown off his coat and toed off his shoes. When he got back to the bedroom, Ian had been on his knees with two fingers in his arse. 

“Do you want me, John?” Sherlock had asked as he took off his suit jacket and draped it over some boxes. “Do you want me to fuck you?” 

“God, yes, I want you, Stephen.” 

Stephen had been Sherlock’s pseudonym.

“Don’t call me Stephen. Don’t call me anything.”

“Okay.” Ian had three fingers in his backside.  

Sherlock had undressed. “Let me lie down.” As soon as he’d lain flat, Ian straddled him, squeezed out more lube and pressed four fingers into his arse. 

“Put your condom on. I’m nearly there." 

“Good.” Sherlock had lubed his sheathed cock and stroked it to full thickness. “Hurry, John.” Sherlock closed his eyes when Ian had slowly impaled himself on his cock. When he opened his eyes again, Ian wore a look of relief. 

“My heat’s due any day.” Ian had been desperate, Sherlock realised. What did it matter? Sherlock was too. “Jesus, you feel good. So fucking good.” Ian had ridden him fast straight away.  

Sherlock had reached beneath the bed and pulled out one of John’s stolen shirts. He’d buried his head in the brushed cotton and inhaled in the scent of the man he had long loved. 

“Help me.” Ian’s voice had been almost broken. “I need it harder and faster.” 

Sherlock had blindly fucked upwards, grabbed Ian’s hips, and pulled him down, down onto his needy cock. “John, I’ve wanted you for so long.” 

“I’m here now.” Ian had stroked Sherlock’s chest and tugged one of Sherlock’s nipples into a hard, wrinkled nub. The affection, the eroticism of the gesture was almost too much.

“John, John, John.” Sherlock’s fingers hurt from digging into Ian’s hips. Their movements had become erratic as release neared. 

“Come on, baby, fill me, honey.” 

Sherlock’s eyes had involuntarily opened wide to look up at the black lightbulb through checked fabric. If John had been there, he certainly wouldn’t have called Sherlock baby or honey. Out of character. Sherlock’s arousal had faded, but he waited for Ian to grunt his release, even though the splatter of semen on his skin made him shudder. Sherlock felt dirty. Guilty. Tarnished.   

“Shit, you haven’t come, have you?” Concern. “Got any more condoms?” 

Sherlock had passively waited for Ian to find the foil wrappers, strip off one condom and roll on another.

“Close your eyes. Think about John.”  

And that was what Sherlock had done. He’d scrunched John’s shirt against his face and pretended the lips around his cock were John’s. Pretend John had wrapped a hand around the root of Sherlock’s cock and taken as much of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth as he could. Slowly, Sherlock’s orgasm had started to near and he grabbed Ian’s short hair and imagined it was John’s. Ian had sucked, and swirled and sucked some more, and, eventually, Sherlock had started to pulse. Immediately, Ian had pulled away, ripped off the condom, and let Sherlock come on his face.

“How was that?” 

Sherlock hadn’t been able to imagine John being passive enough to let him come on his face. Sherlock peeled away the shirt from his face. Ian, he’d realised, hadn’t looked anything like John. Sherlock had grabbed his white shirt from the floor and used it to wipe spunk from Ian’s cheeks.

“Thank you.” Ian had licked the last of Sherlock’s spunk from his lips.

Suddenly embarrassed, Sherlock had nodded. A lump formed in his throat and made him feel nauseated. “Do you want a shower?”  

“If I can, that would be great.” Despite his smile, Ian had looked sad. 

“Take your clothes down with you. There are towels in the airing cupboard downstairs. You’ll find them, I’m sure.”

“Fancy making me a cuppa?” Ian had winked, and, just in that moment, he really had looked a little like John Watson.  

“Just the one.” 

When Ian had appeared in the kitchen fifteen minutes later, Sherlock handed him a mug.  

“Cheers. So, who’s John?”  

“No one of your concern.”

“Don’t be like that.” Ian had put his mug down on the counter and moved to stand in front of Sherlock. “Y’know, I won’t judge. I don’t know you. I’m the only person you can tell because I don’t know you or John. I’d like you to tell me. Won’t make you.” Ian shrugged and turned around, his back to Sherlock. 

“I love him.” Sherlock never knew why he’d said it or why he’d decided he needed to talk.  “I’ve always loved him. He’s my best friend.”

“Does he love you?” 

“He’s straight.”

“An Omega?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then he’s not that straight. Most Omegas have tried male cock. Liked male cock. Is he married?”

 “Widowed.”

“Tell him you love him.”

“I can’t.” 

“What if he’s as miserable as you? What if he wants you too? Do you want to cause him that pain?”

“He won’t want me.” 

“Mate, you’re attractive, fit, smart and you’ve got a lovely cock. What’s not to want?”

“Most people hate me.”

“John’s your friend. He doesn’t hate you." 

“No.”

“Can I make a suggestion?”

“Does it matter what I say?”

“I know this sounds disgusting but spread some of your jizz about. You smell and taste pretty damn good. My guess is that he’ll start to think about you differently. What have you got to lose?”

“You’re right. That is disgusting.” 

“It’s just a shove in the right direction.”

“I’m not great at masturbating.” 

“The shirt covered in your spunk is upstairs. It’ll do.” Ian had finished his tea and turned around. “You should at least try. If not, then I’ll be John for you any time you need. You know where to find me.”   

Ian left and Sherlock had gone upstairs to retrieve his shirt.

 

**

 

 

vix.  **Heated Moments**

 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was quiet. Sherlock was on his way back from the bathroom when he heard him. “Please.” Sherlock rushed back through to his bedroom to find John on the bed, arse in the air, with all four fingers in his rear end. “It came on suddenly,” John said. “Need you.” 

“Okay, okay,” Sherlock said. To his concern, he noticed that John’s eyes looked a little misty. If there was anything Sherlock was guaranteed not to resist, it was his John being upset. “Let me take care of you.”  

“I want you to bond me this time.” John removed his fingers, stood on his knees and braced himself against the headboard. Slick ran down the back of his thighs. “I need it.”

Sherlock dropped his robe and climbed onto the bed. His cock had hardened as soon as he saw John finger fuck himself; Sherlock was ready, and, in a matter of seconds, he was inside. It felt like coming home.

“Good, good.” John circled his hips but, at one spot, they stuttered to a stop. “There,” John said. “There.”

Sherlock grasped John’s hips and concentrated on fucking him with precise, careful strokes.  “Alright?” Sherlock asked. He wet his hand with slick from John’s thighs and tasted it. It was pure, liquid John; everything that he was, everything Sherlock needed. He wrapped his dripping fingers around John’s cock.

“Ah!” John leant back against Sherlock’s chest. “I can’t tell you how amazing you feel and smell and everything.” John gripped Sherlock’s thighs. “I’ve never wanted anyone this much.” 

“I feel the same way,” Sherlock agreed. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Me too, love, me too.” 

“Love?” Sherlock’s heart stopped, then raced back to life with echoing thuds. His movements stilled. A careless little term of affection had broken his composure.

“You are my love,” John said. He tilted his head back and clumsily kissed the bridge of Sherlock’s nose. “And I do love you.”

“I love you.” Sherlock’s voice broke halfway through and emotion rushed to his head. He started to move again for distraction if nothing else. But, as he canted his hips back and forth, he was sure he felt John’s heart thump heavily through his back and right into the centre of Sherlock’s chest. “You’re mine.” 

“I am yours.” John reached back to grab Sherlock’s arse and encourage him on. His voice hitched in time with Sherlock’s hips. “I think I’ve always been yours. And, you bastard, you’re mine.” Sherlock grinned at the less romantic term of affection because he knew it carried no less love.  

“John, John,” Sherlock intoned and he nudged John’s head with his own. Sherlock’s knot had formed already and was desperate for entrance. He started to stroke John faster. Despite his arousal, Sherlock’s mind flitted to remember that he may never have bedded John had he not taken the advice of a stranger. “God, John, I wanted you so much. That’s why I did it. I needed you, John. You have to understand.”

“What? Whatever it is, we’ll talk about this later.” John looked over his shoulder. “But, for now, just fucking fuck me.”

“God, yes.” Sherlock sank into John’s body desperate for redemption, desperate to get deeper. With a few firmer thrusts, his knot slipped inside John’s uterus.

“That feels good.” John tilted his neck and dropped his head. “It’s time, Sherlock. Do it. Bond with me.”

Sherlock pulled John close and put his mouth around the scent gland on John’s neck. This was the moment Sherlock combined their DNA together, bonding them with chemistry as well as capricious emotion. He rolled his hips, pushed his cock in deep, and came as his teeth split John’s skin and sank into willing flesh. The warm iron rush of John’s blood flooded Sherlock’s tongue and dripped from his lips. Sherlock closed his eyes. Even in the midst of orgasm, his mind roiled with conflicting emotions: joy, arousal, love and the guilt of the necessary, intimate violence he’d just enacted upon his new mate.

“Oh yes.” John trembled with unshed desire.

“Come for me, John,” Sherlock stroked John’s cock firmer. Faster. “I want to feel you come undone. I’m so desperately, utterly yours, John Watson.” 

John twisted in Sherlock’s arms, his eyes and mouth open, and he came against the headboard. It was, quite possibly, the most erotic thing Sherlock had ever seen, and, in sympathy, he was wracked with another orgasm himself. The extra flood of release made John’s eyes flutter and yet more semen gushed over Sherlock’s hand, which was still wrapped around John’s pulsing cock. They both collapsed forward and grabbed at the stained headboard in an attempt to stay on their knees. 

As gently as he could, Sherlock eased his teeth from John’s neck, then laved over the wound, cleaning it with his tongue.  He wrapped one arm around John while he gripped the headboard with the other. 

“My knees and thighs are fucking killing me.” John sagged even further. “Can we lay down?” 

“We can if you fall back on top of me.” Sherlock wrapped both arms around John. “I’ll hang on to you.” With little grace and no lack of discomfort, John flopped backwards as Sherlock did. They collapsed into a heap, their legs in a tangle. “Can we turn over?” John wasn’t a big man, but he felt heavy on Sherlock’s chest.  They rocked back and forth a little like a beetle stuck on its back. 

“Nope,” John said. “We’re stuffed until your knot goes down. Can you breathe?”

“Enough.” Sherlock stared at the wound he’d made in John’s neck. The trail of blood that dripped from it into the hollow of Sherlock’s collarbone made him feel both horrified and overjoyed. No matter how brutal, it was an expression of love and commitment. Yet still, it concerned him. “How’s your neck?”

“Surprisingly okay. Probably have a few endorphins to thank for that.” John stroked Sherlock’s leg. “It felt amazing. I’m so glad it was you.”

“Wonderful.” Sherlock clung to John. Surely, he couldn’t come again from, what? Relief? Happiness? “Guh,” Sherlock sighed, and his muscles stiffened in bliss and then relaxed, satiated.

“Well, this is getting ridiculous.” John lifted his hand to inspect his fingernails. “Did I tell you I’d paid your gas bill?”

“Thought I had a direct debit.” Sherlock’s body still shuddered with aftershocks. 

“You did until you emptied the bills bank account by buying five hundred Petri dishes.” John shook his head. Sherlock began to talk but was swiftly interrupted. “I know, I know, there was an experiment. There’s always a sodding experiment.” 

“Those experiments do help me solve crime.” Sherlock could feel himself deflate. They’d just bonded, and this was neither romantic nor sexy. “Those Petri dishes save lives, John.”

“Sadly, they don’t do quite as much for your bank account.”

“Well, when you and Rosie move back up here…”

“Don’t start that shit,” John said. “I love you, but we’ll move up here when it’s right for us.” 

“You still love me?” Sherlock’s dick stopped softening and gave a pleasurable twitch. “Even when we’re not mid-coitus?”

John flung his arms out. “Of course, I do, you doughnut. But we’re supposed to be trying to get you to out of me, not stay in there forever.” John’s exasperated movement caused his weight to shift and, with a slow but certain tilt, he started to roll off Sherlock’s body. Prone as he was, Sherlock couldn’t stop him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s belly and clung to him as they rolled from the bed onto the carpet. This time, Sherlock ended up on top of John and the movement pushed his cock more solidly inside John. They both moaned. 

“God, that felt terrific,” John said. “Is it bad that I think I need a proper hard fuck?”

“I’m not sure how much movement I have,” Sherlock replied. He pulled back as far as his knot would allow and then thrust in. _Damn_ , it felt good. His penis had softened enough to give him more leverage than he’d estimated. “Oh God,” he whimpered. 

“Help me get in the right position,” John said. Eager, Sherlock hauled himself up as far as he could and helped John to his knees. “Fuck, no, they still hurt.” John slumped until Sherlock caught him.

“Lift your knee,” Sherlock instructed. “And stick your bum out.” Sherlock encouraged John into the right position, and then pulled back and thrust back in. “How’s that?” 

“Bloody fucking fabulous,” John replied. “Get on with it, then.”

Sherlock grasped John’s leg for leverage and thrust in and out, his rhythm immediately unforgiving. He had no idea how he was still aroused, but John keened and moaned and that urged him on and on and on.

“Surely this isn’t supposed to feel this good?” John’s voice was croaky. He pushed back against Sherlock with each thrust inward. “If I wasn’t so pleased, I’d be annoyed that you’re brilliant at this. God, God, I’m nearly there already.”

“Me too, me too.” Sherlock’s knot was rapidly thickening again and stopping him from thrusting as he had before. He rocked against John, each breath a whimper. 

“You’re holding back,” John said. “I know you are. Stop it. Just, please.”

Sherlock didn’t wait to hear if there was more to John’s statement. John’s scent coloured his world red with something like a drug high, but instead of his mind fracturing into so many disparate splinters, Sherlock was focused on the man beneath him. John. Always John. Fuck John. Come inside John. Fill John.

“Coming,” John moaned beneath him. Sherlock reached between John’s legs to his perineum, where he rubbed the soft skin and pressed in a little. In response, John’s body clamped around Sherlock in a series of sharp contractions. It was that which spiralled Sherlock into orgasm. 

“John.” Sherlock pumped more of his spunk into John’s body. “Love.”

John’s arm moved in a manner that suggested he was still rubbing his cock, so Sherlock continued to fuck him, as much as he could. Sherlock licked and suckled at John’s neck, salving the wound there.

“Yes, love, yes,” John whined, and whine turned into a cry, and the cry turned into a roar. He wasn’t sure what it was about the sound that did it for Sherlock, but he came again, even though it made it feel like his penis was being yanked by a rhinoceros. And, finally, the two men collapsed in a sweaty heap. 

“I didn’t even know that was possible,” John said when he’d got his breath back. “You’re a fucking wonder, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock, weakly, pulsed inside John.

“You really are a sucker for a compliment, aren’t you?” John wriggled beneath Sherlock. “I’m not being funny, but I think I could do with you not coming anymore. It feels a bit weird.”

“Those last orgasms were a touch painful,” Sherlock agreed. “We need to calm down.” 

“And I really need to get up off the floor. Everything feels bruised.”

“So, do my bollocks,” Sherlock replied. And that made John giggle, and that made Sherlock come again in a curious mix of pleasure and pain. 

“Stop it. We’ll never get off the floor at this rate.”

Sherlock reached round and stroked John’s cock once, twice and then John too had another orgasm.  John’s fingers bit into Sherlock’s thigh. “Point taken,” John said through clenched teeth. “What did you mean before? You said that you wanted me so that’s why you did it. What did you do?”

“It was nothing,” Sherlock replied. He squinched his eyes shut and prayed.

“Tell me, Sherlock.” John sounded distinctly unimpressed. “What did you do?”

“Irubbedmysemenallovertheflat.” Sherlock pressed his hot face against John’s back.

“Why? I mean, it sounds like something you’d do, but why?”

“A man from Grindr said it’d make you want me.”

“How many men from Grindr do you know?”

“Er, one.”

John inhaled sharply and then let out his breath slowly. “Okay. I mean, I’ve wanted you for years. I don’t think the spunk had anything to do with it. But, okay.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Sherlock paused. Sometimes deduction was a bitch. “How many men from Grindr do you know?" 

“One.”

“Oh.”

“How about we never talk about this ever again?”

“Sounds fine.”

John paused. “You know what’s worrying me? The mess we’re going to make of your bedroom floor when your stonk-on goes down.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock had a dark red carpet; semen was going to stain something awful. “If we work together, we could get to the bathroom.” 

“Are you insane?” John asked. “You’re an inch or so taller than me.”

“An inch or so?” 

“Do you want to put your cock in me ever again? Think about it, Sherlock. Think hard.”

“Fine. If I crouch, we can compensate for the discrepancy.”

“Alright, genius, what do we do?”

“Just go with me for now.” Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s waist and tugged them both into a crouch. “After three, stand up. One-two-three.” Sherlock kept himself at John’s pace and bent his knees to adjust for their height difference. Even though John stumbled, they made it to their feet. “Now, Captain Watson, it’s time for you to lead the march.”

“Where are we headed?” John asked. “Bathroom?”

“Good idea,” Sherlock agreed.

“In that case, by the left, slow march.”

Sherlock mirrored of John’s steps, keeping his legs slightly flexed, until they reached the bathroom. John called a halt when they were next to the bath.

“Are we stopping here or are we trying to get into the bath?” John asked.  

“In the bath. Easier to have a shower straight after.” 

“Okay, we’ll climb by the left on three. One-two-three.”

Sherlock slotted his leg behind John’s and, together, they stepped in.

“How about I sit down, and you can rest on top of me?”

“We could stand,” John suggested. 

“You promised I could, well, you know.” Sherlock blushed.

“See all your spunk dribble out of my stretched hole?” There was a smile in that voice. “Fine, get on with it, then.” 

“Bend your knees.” Sherlock eased them down until his backside hit cold porcelain.  He stretched out his long legs and helped John stabilise himself on his haunches. 

“Not long, I think,” John said. “I take it I’ve got to stay like this so you can be a pervy Alpha about all this, have I?” 

“Do you mind?” Sherlock asked. 

“Not really,” John answered. “It’s not every day that you have sex twice while you’re knotted together. If nothing else, I know that the scientist in you wants to see as well as the Alpha does.”

“I can feel my knot slipping.” As it did, there was slippery pressure against Sherlock’s cock. He grabbed John’s arse and spread his cheeks to see rivulets of spunk leak, liberated from John’s hole. As Sherlock’s knot deflated, the rivulets widened until Sherlock’s cock dropped free and, with it, out came a gush of release that coated Sherlock’s groin and tummy with pearly liquid. 

“Fuck me, that felt amazing. Like it was never going to end.” John gripped the sides of the bath and bore down. The last vestiges of Sherlock’s ejaculate dribbled down John’s leg. 

Below him, Sherlock dipped his hands in sticky come and shoved some of it back inside John with his fingers. Then he painted John’s buttocks, his hole and his thighs with the fluid. “I wish you could stay full of me, John,” Sherlock whispered. “So there was always some of me inside you. And any other Alpha would know that you were more than my bondmate. That you were mine, inside and out.”

John turned around and crawled over Sherlock’s prone form. “And who do you belong to, Sherlock? Would you wear my scent?”  

“Always,” Sherlock replied. “I’d wear your release and your slick as aftershave if it made you happy.”

“You’re a very singular man, Sherlock Holmes.” John kissed him tenderly, then swept his tongue over Sherlock’s. He pulled back, eyes warm and soft. “I love you something rotten. But, right now, I really want a shower. Much as I know you love all the ooze, I want to be clean.”

Sherlock humphed with pretend displeasure. The truth was, his groin was already itchy after its unconventional shower. Sherlock scrambled to a stand on the slippery porcelain and squeaked when the first splashes of cold water hit his skin. 

“Bugger, sorry.” John laughed and tugged Sherlock back under the water. “Since you’re my big strong Alpha, or some shit like that, you can soap me up first. Do it well and I’ll consider buying a butt plug so, well, y’know.” He smiled. 

“Where’s the soap?”

 

**


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleepy sex, some disaster, a dodgy chair and some hospital sex. I mean, what's not to love? *coughs*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of the chair, Grammarly hates me. I do love, however, that it told me to hyphenate hard-on. Lovely.

Part Three

 

 **x**.  **Too Darn Hot**

 

It was after midnight. Post-shower, John and Sherlock had gone back to bed, ostensibly for a quick nap. It hadn’t lasted long enough. 

John poked Sherlock in the hip with his hard cock and tried pitifully to reach his arse with his fingers. He gave up with a wordless cry.

“I’m too tired,” John moaned, clearly miserable but ridiculously horny.

“Lie on your tummy,” Sherlock suggested. “Let me do the work." 

John let Sherlock position him and almost sobbed with relief when Sherlock’s half-hard cock slid inside. If earlier was sheer, rabid desperation, for Sherlock this was pure love. He draped his body over John’s and rocked inside, nudging John’s prostate, not jabbing it with hard thrusts.  His hands slipped around John’s feverish skin and caressed his cock with tender touches. John’s breathy gasps increased when Sherlock started to thrust in deeper. Sherlock kissed his shoulders and the back of his neck, then followed the contours of John’s bullet scar with his tongue.

“Please,” John whimpered after a while. Sherlock stroked John’s cock faster, with more intent, and John cried out with each thrust.

Slowly, Sherlock developed a rather lazy knot, which slipped inside John with little by way of resistance. He leant back his torso, so his hips were further forward, and made love to John with deep rather than fast movements. When Sherlock came, he did so with his lips pressed against John’s skin. 

A few more strokes and John cried out as he too came.  He threw his head back in ecstasy and so close were they that, in doing so, John headbutted Sherlock’s nose.

“Ow!” Sherlock dropped against John and clutched his face. In a matter of seconds, thick, warm blood trickled through his fingers. “I think you broke my nose,” he said, his voice nasal. 

“Oh, don’t be a jessie.” John rubbed his head. 

“I’m bleeding on you,” Sherlock replied. “And I feel a bit lightheaded.”

“Really?”  

Much to Sherlock’s horror, he started to swoon. He’d had a bloody nose more than once but never before had it made his vision swim in such an alarming way. Sherlock noticed his hands shake and tried and failed to speak. He waved a single arm in the air like a conductor guiding his own collapse. And then, Sherlock fainted.   

 

*

 

“Mycroft Holmes, if you don’t get Sherlock to a hospital immediately, I will find you and pluck out your public hairs one by one and then ram the itchy little fuckers up your nose.”

John hung up his phone and continued to try and dress Sherlock, who was still unconscious. As a doctor, he knew it was probably due to nothing more than dehydration and low blood sugar. As an afraid lover, he was concerned that he’d killed his boyfriend, or that the world’s only consulting detective might become, at best, a cabbage.

“Why do you wear such stupidly fitted clothing, you wanker?” John asked as he attempted to wrangle Sherlock into some suit trousers. He’d managed pants, even if they were a bit crooked, but he’d veered into disaster. John manhandled Sherlock onto his side and struggled to get the blue trouser legs past gangly knees.

“John?”  Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered open. 

“Now you wake up,” John replied. He let go of Sherlock, who twitched, rolled off the bed, and smacked his head off the floor with a sickening thud.  “Fuck.”

“Ow,” Sherlock moaned. “That hurt. Why do I sound like this?” Sherlock raised a hand to his nose, which was distorted because John had rammed it with loo paper to staunch the bleeding. 

“Leave it there!” John smacked Sherlock’s hand away. The sound of heavy boots on stairs hammered through the old walls and up into 221B.  John immediately restrained Sherlock, who was attempting to get up off the floor, hampered by his trouser bondage. “You’ve hurt your nose, and now your head, and stop sodding moving! I’m warning you, I will put you in a headlock if you don’t stop wriggling.” 

“Dr Watson?” A paramedic poked his head around the door. His uniform was pale green and white. Not an NHS paramedic then. Private. Figured. “How’s our patient?”

“Until just now, he’d been unconscious for the past…” John checked his watch. “Eleven minutes. He’s somewhat agitated and, in his distress, has just banged his head on the floor. Original injury was caused by, well, er…” 

“I understand it was an injury related to your heat?” The paramedic crouched beside Sherlock. He and his colleague were Betas.

“Yes. Anyway, my head hit his nose.” 

“And when was the last time you ate?” 

“A while ago,” John replied. “The last few hours have been, well, a bit full-on.”

“And drank?”

“Same.” 

“Okay, Mr Holmes, can you remember what day it is?” The paramedic turned his attention to Sherlock, who glowered at him.  

“Wednesday.” Sherlock sighed. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“It’s Friday, Sherlock,” John said.

“Oh.” 

“Can you tell me who the Prime Minister is?” The paramedic asked.

“Let’s just load him into the ambulance,” John interrupted. The paramedic frowned at him. “Trust me. He won’t know the answer to any of your questions. For a genius, Sherlock’s remarkably stupid.”

With the distinct disadvantage of Sherlock arguing and haranguing the paramedics, it took over ten minutes to get him onto a stretcher and out of the building. The pale green, white and red ambulance was higher tech than a normal ambulance and it rattled far less. Tristan, the paramedic, leant towards John as the vehicle parked up.  

“We’re at a private facility, ABO Health Centre,” Tristan whispered. “You’ll be in a private room immediately and, as soon as Mr Holmes is deemed fit, you will be able to resume your activities.”

“You mean my heat?” John eyes widened with surprise. 

“Of course. And there’ll be a machine in Mr Holmes’ room that will help you until he’s ready.”

“Jesus,” John said.

“No. Tristan.”

John looked at Sherlock, who slept peacefully and wished he was doing the same. Tristan squeezed his hand.

“Let’s go.” 

John followed as Sherlock was wheeled through the beige corridors of an unremarkable building. John was led into a private room, while Sherlock was taken for an MRI and an X-ray. While he was gone, John looked around the room. A nurse walked in behind him and started to hang bags on a drip stand. 

“We’re going to start Mr Holmes on saline with some glucose to maintain his blood sugar and hydrate him. The results of his scans will be expedited, but that chair is yours if you need it.” She pointed to a chair in the corner of the room. There was a blanket draped over the seat and what looked like a vacuum cleaner in front of it. John looked at the chair and then at the nurse. She laughed. “It’s really not as bad as it looks. I promise.” She walked towards the door. “I’ll be back in a minute with a drink and sandwich for you. Mr Holmes should be back very soon too. Just so you know.” 

John closed his eyes. Everyone clearly expected him to be gagging for sex. However, John was more concerned by Sherlock’s absence. As soon as they’d separated, John started to feel panicky, lost and alone. His need for Sherlock’s return was absolutely palpable, and, at least for the present, that was all that concerned him.  John walked to the bed and started to rearrange pillows and sheets into a nest before he caught himself. 

Thankfully, the nurse returned with a tray filled with sandwiches, drinks, crisps and chocolate. Clearly, the Health Centre didn’t want John to pass out either. John munched a ham sandwich and tentatively, casually, approached the special chair. The thud of the room doors halted him. Sherlock was wheeled in on a wide bed and, without a steady thought, John headed towards him.  

“Mr Watson?” asked a tall, dark-haired woman. Another Beta. She placed herself between John and Sherlock and, without thinking, John snarled. “Relax.” The woman took a step back, then another. It was enough to let John stand at Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock’s eyes blinked open as if John’s presence had awoken him from a deep sleep. John bent over and kissed his forehead. “I missed you,” John whispered against Sherlock’s warm, clear skin. Sherlock's nose looked better. Well, it was clean and there wasn't loo roll shoved up it anymore. 

“Dr Watson?” the woman asked again. John’s posture changed, and he nodded. “My name’s Dr Marshall. I’ll be looking after Mr Holmes’ care while you’re here. His MRI is being looked at by our neurology team and his X-Ray has been sent to our plastic surgeons. As far as I can see, there are no breakages, but plastics will check and confirm. Mr Holmes is, I suspect, dehydrated and his blood sugar is rather low. As soon as we’ve heard from the specialists and we know Mr Holmes doesn’t require surgery, we’ll bring him some food. For now, he has glucose in his drip. Has anyone explained the chair?” Dr Marshall nodded towards the corner.

“The nurse,” John confirmed.

“Please lock the door to this room behind me. We’ll buzz when we have more news and you can tell us whether it’s appropriate for us to enter or not.” Dr Marshall looked at John, then put her hand on his arm. “My patient is Mr Holmes, but also you, by proxy. If you need anything, it’s possible. Just ask.”

John walked Dr Marshall to the door and locked it behind her. He turned to look at Sherlock, who watched him with cool, blue eyes.

“How do you feel?” John walked back to the bed, slipped off his jacket and shoes and crawled in next to Sherlock.

“Sore,” Sherlock replied. “Fuzzy.” He took a deep breath. “Your heat!” Sherlock’s eyes opened comically wide and, in the spirit of spreading calm, John put a hand on his chest. 

“It’s okay,” John told him. “We’re at a private clinic and apparently, if I need it, there’s that thing.” John pointed to the blanketed seat. “I’ve never been more worried about a chair in my life.” 

“Bring it over,” Sherlock said. He’d tried to see the thing, but it was too far behind him.  It was surprisingly heavy, but John managed to drag it to Sherlock’s bedside. “Oh.” Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Oh.”

“What?” John asked. 

“It’s an Omega chair.” Sherlock grinned. “I haven’t seen one in some time. Had a case once where a lady had hers stolen and, of course, I was able to return it. She paid me incredibly well. Said the chair was better than her husband and cheaper to run." 

John pulled the sheet draped over the chair until the thing was revealed.  In the seat was a hole and beneath that was black, shiny dildo. On the front of the chair was a control unit and, hung over the top, a long hose with a flesh-light at the end. John blushed, and, to his dismay, slick began to ooze from between his arse cheeks. He looked at his watch. They’d last had sex just over an hour ago. John had never experienced a heat where he’d felt so desperate, so aroused. He felt like a prisoner to the needs of his body and yet, he didn’t really care. All he wanted was sex. Sex with Sherlock. Sherlock, who he’d already fucked into hospital.

“John, use it if you need it.” Sherlock’s eyes were so gorgeously blue and unguarded in this cold, sterile room. He looked pale and his nose looked puffy and bruised, but his dick expressed some interest in the proceedings. Sherlock noticed John’s eyeline and gave John a grim smile. “They told me I shouldn’t. Not until they know if whether I’ve got concussion or anything else.”

John rocked on his heels. His dick throbbed behind the seam of his jeans, and the temptation to crawl on top of Sherlock and ride to release was almost overwhelming. But John was also a doctor and someone who loved Sherlock. He couldn’t ignore Dr Marshall’s instructions because he knew they were prudent. John pulled at his belt; the chair was his best option.

“You need to turn the chair on first, before you sit. It’ll make sure you’re lined up properly.” Sherlock sat up in bed and watched John undress. “And put the hose thing on your…”

“I think I figured that out,” John finished. His knees trembled with need, even though he didn’t want to use the bloody chair. He turned it on.  

“H-e-l-l-o—D-r—W-a-t-s-o-n,” appeared on the console of the machine. There was a whirring sound and the dildo rose up through the seat and wiggled to a stop. “P-l-e-a-s-e—c-l-i-m-b—a-b-o-a-r-d.”

John shuffled into the space between the console and the chair and reached behind him to grab the black prick. As he lined it up with his hole, his slick oozed over his fist. John lowered himself slowly down onto the silicone toy.

“Oh!” John seated himself fully on both chair and dildo. Sherlock, who was lying in his bed, absently rubbed his crotch through the sheets. 

The console of the chair beeped. “I-n-s-e-r-t—y-o-u-r—p-e-n-i-s—i-n-t-o—t-h-e—h-o-s-e—a-p-p-a-r-a-t-u-s.”  

John lifted the flesh-light. His dick was hard and drooled thin trails of precome down his shaft. John wiped the slick he still had on his hand over his penis, then pulled the flesh-light over the top. He jumped when it tightened around him and more lubricant oozed onto his cock.

“P-r-o-g-r-am—i-n-i-t-i-a-t-i-n-g---3-2-1.”

The dildo pulled out of John a little way and then pushed back in. At the same time, the flesh-light rippled around him, as though his cock was in someone’s mouth and they’d just sucked. It didn’t feel like Sherlock and none of it was as pleasant as human interaction, but it did the job. Hot shame flooded John’s system. This wasn’t what he wanted, but it’s what his body demanded. Sherlock, on the hand, seemed only to enjoy the view.

“Fuck, Sherlock.” The machine’s dick thrust in again. “I can’t tell you how much I hate that I want this.” Sherlock slipped a hand beneath his blanket and John scowled. “Don’t you fucking dare touch yourself. The reason I’m being fucked by a sodding chair is that you’re out of action. So, stop wanking. I forbid you to have an orgasm until you’re inside me again.”

Sherlock did as he was told, scootched over and extended his hand towards John. “Hold my hand?”  

“Thank you.” John took Sherlock’s hand and the connection somehow made it all a bit better. The tempo of the machine picked up and the sleeve around John’s penis started move up and down his shaft.

“These modern chairs are supposed to be able to figure out what you need from the chemical make-up from your slick and your precome. It should deliver precisely what you need at any given time.” Sherlock looked rather longingly at John.

“Bullshit,” John replied. “It’s not giving me you, is it?” And that was the problem. John couldn’t deny that the machine, _oh, and it’d just sped up again and unerringly found his prostate,_ was lovely, but it just wasn’t Sherlock. He rocked between the dildo and the sleeve and it was all very satisfactory, but it wasn’t what a new bondmate wanted.  A look at Sherlock’s face made it clear it wasn’t pleasing him either. “I want to get off,” John said. 

“That’s what the chair is trying to do for you.” Sherlock’s mouth twitched at the corner, but not into a smile.  

“No, I mean I want to stop the chair. I don’t like it,” John said. “How do I stop it?” 

“But John, it’s better than without it, surely?” Sherlock’s expression switched from unhappiness to concern. “Without that, you’ll be in pain. Inside of ten minutes, you’ll be begging strangers…” 

“I don’t think I will,” John huffed. A little voice in his head yelled, ‘ _bullshit_!’. 

“Take the hose thing off,” Sherlock demanded with a wafted hand. He wiggled his bum to the edge of the bed and got to his feet. He was a little unsteady, but not for long. Sherlock collected his drip stand, dragged it around the bed and then walked to John. He peered myopically at the console of the chair, pressed a few buttons, and the ‘hose thing’, as Sherlock so eloquently put it, flopped off of John’s cock. 

“What are you doing?” John asked. Immediately, his cock started to leak and throb, and he bit back a whimper before he reached for it. Sherlock took John’s hand, kissed the palm and rested it on John’s tummy. He moved the chair’s console back, slipped in between it and the chair, and lowered himself to his knees. “Sherlock?” John hated how vulnerable, how needy, his voice sounded. But he was instantly rewarded by Sherlock’s warm mouth closing around the tip of his penis and his hand around the root. “Fuck me,” he moaned.  

Sherlock dipped his head and took almost all of John’s prick into his mouth before he pulled back with a long, slurping, suck. He bobbed his head down and moved in time with the motions of the chair. John’s mind went from, ‘What-sort-of-Alpha-sucks-an-Omega’s-cock?-Twice!’, to, ‘Thank-fucking-God-that-Sherlock’s-that-sort-of-Alpha’, and on to, ‘If-anyone-thinks-they’re-getting-near-Sherlock-Holmes,-I-will-fucking-shoot-them-because-he’s-mine’.

“You’re too fucking good at that.” John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. “I can’t believe you’re mine. How did I get this lucky?” Sherlock’s hand cradled and tugged John’s balls, which made John moan so loudly he worried that everyone else in the health centre heard him. 

“Fuck, fuck!” John said shakily. The speed of the chair notched up another gear. As it thrust in and out of John’s arse, the silicone dildo made sloppy, slapping noises. It seemed to swell inside, and the unrelenting machine moved even faster. The vibrations made the flesh of John’s thighs tremble but somehow Sherlock never faltered in his ministrations. In fact, he moaned and nodded when John’s hips tipped forward and he pushed his cock deeper into Sherlock’s mouth.

“Oh, Sherlock.” John gripped the armrests of the chair and made silent ‘o’s’ with his lips with each stroke of the chair and pass of Sherlock’s lips. “Make me come, sweetheart. Please.”

Dimly, John heard the door buzz, but, before he gathered his thoughts about it, Sherlock’s fingers pressed his perineum and, in response, John came and came and came.

 

*

 

 

“Where on earth did you learn to give blow-jobs like that?” John asked from his prone position. Sherlock was back in bed. John thought about getting up. “Actually, don’t tell me. I may be forced to hunt whoever you practised on down and kill them.” John's legs shook but he managed to stand and then ineptly pulled on his pants. “Fuck.” 

Sherlock threw back the covers. “Get into bed.”. 

John, who’d walked in on some personal scenes in hospitals, was tempted to say no. However, since this particular health centre had an Omega chair in it, they were clearly expecting unusual behaviour. Needless to say, he climbed into bed, lifted one of Sherlock’s arms and snuggled beneath it, his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“I think the doctor’s been round,” John said and nodded towards the flashing console by the door. 

“Good job I have this then.” Sherlock lifted a remote control and pressed a button. Dr Marshall’s tinny voice emerged from the console by the door and told them to press a combination of buttons on the remote to page her. Sherlock did as he was bid, while John was overwhelmed by a wave of embarrassment. He pulled the covers up until they covered his face.  

“What’s the matter?” Sherlock asked. “Why are you burrowing?” 

From his place beneath the covers, John had an eyeline view of Sherlock’s dick. It looked painfully hard. For all his embarrassment, he was, at least, relatively pain free, so he sighed and lowered the covers. Sherlock smiled, confused and earnest. John leant up and gave him a warm, soft kiss.

“Look, the Omega chair’s been used, this room smells of sex and I’m in bed with my boyfriend who has a raging hard-on.” John rubbed his forehead. “It’s going to be very clear to Dr Marshall that I, well, that I, you know, couldn’t, well, _wait_.” 

“You’re an Omega on the first day of your heat,” Sherlock replied. “Naturally you couldn’t wait. You’re a man, John, not a God.”

“Thanks for that reminder. I just thought I had better self-control is all.”

“And you’re a human being with imperatives and drives befitting your first gender as a man and your second gender as an Omega,” Sherlock stated. “You know my work, John, and that all crimes are linked to some human emotion or another. Humans are both weak and strong and a hundred different contradictions. Today, your new bondmate had an accident mid-coitus and required professional help. That help included this place ensuring you could remain with me without anguish or pain. It really is that simple.”

John sighed again and closed his eyes. He focused on the steady movement of Sherlock’s chest beneath his head and the faint thrum of Sherlock’s heartbeat not so very far away. “I used to have a bloke in my unit when I was in Kandahar,” John said. “He was called Jeff Smith. He was a nice fella. He had this saying that life was simple. It’s a question of deciding what you give a fuck about and ignoring everything else. S’not a bad way to live.”

“I agree, John.” Sherlock squeezed John’s shoulder.  “It’s unsophisticated, but not without merit. Indeed, it’s not a million miles away from my own attitude to life.”

John grinned.  “It isn’t, love. It really isn’t.”

“So, my advice, based on that, is for you to decide that you don’t care about the doctor knowing whether or not you’ve used the chair, had a marvellous orgasm or anything else.” Sherlock rubbed John’s arm. “You and I are in this bed, safe and sound. Your daughter is with Molly, safe and sound. What else is there to worry about?” 

Abruptly, a ringing noise sounded. Sherlock raised the remote and the door clicked open. Dr Marshall entered the room. She couldn’t help but be blasted by the hormones, or the smell of sex in the air, but she didn’t show it for a second. 

“Mr Holmes,” Dr Marshall said. “You look much better already.” She walked over to check Sherlock’s drip stand. “And you’re certainly far more hydrated. How do you feel?”

“Frustrated,” Sherlock replied. “And my nose is a bit sore.”

“Well, it’s going to be. You might end up with some extensive facial bruising, but there’s nothing broken. Your scans look fine. There’s no reason to think you have concussion. So, I want you both to have something more to eat and drink. Someone will be along in a few moments to take you down to one of our lounges. After that, if you wish to return home, we’ll arrange transportation. Otherwise, you can stay here for the remainder of your heat should you wish to. The benefit of staying is that we’ll make sure you’re fed and hydrated. But, of course, it’s entirely your choice.” 

“We can go now,” John replied. “We’ve got food and drinks at home.”

“I’m afraid I will simply not allow you to leave until I’m satisfied that you’ve both taken on adequate nourishment,” Dr Marshall said. “Mr Holmes’ brother has given me strict orders to make sure that you’re both fit and well before you leave. Even if you are a Doctor.” 

“Let’s just go down to the lounge, hm?” Sherlock suggested. “If it’s awful, we’ll leave as soon as we can. If not, then we’ll decide from there.”

John shrugged. His body made its demands clear and it didn’t involve food. “’Kay,” he agreed in the end. Dr Marshall removed Sherlock’s drips and made her apologies. Her place in the room was swiftly replaced by a muscular porter called Jacob. John started to lift the covers, but Jacob halted his movements. 

“You stay there, Dr Watson,” Jacob said. “You let Jacob take care of you.” He draped their clothing over the foot of the bed, then let off the brake. “Could I take the remote from you, Mr ‘Olmes?” Sherlock handed it over and Jacob pressed a few buttons and the hospital room doors swung open. 

“This is ridiculous,” John said. “We can walk.”

“I dare say you can,” Jacob said. “But ‘int it better for everyone if we preserve yours and Mr ‘Olmes’ dignity? After all, wiv you in ‘eat and Mr ‘Olmes in rut, it pays to be cautious.” 

John mind was overtaken with a sudden image of Sherlock attempting to walk with the stonking erection John knew he had. He smiled and then stopped when he released the bed sheets beneath his arse were rather tacky.  

Jacob wheeled them to the lift. Everyone was silent for the minute it took to travel down two floors. When the doors opened, all traces of hospital were gone. Jacob wheeled the bed over wooden floors which mirrored wooden panelling on the walls. The lounge doors were cushioned burgundy leather, and the stark strip lighting made way for wall lights that emitted a dimmer glow. Jacob came to a stop outside one of the red doors. 

“I leave you now,” Jacob said. “You get up and go in your room and leave the bed out ‘ere. I’ll take it back upstairs. Remember your clothes and ‘ave a pleasant…” Jacob looked at his watch. “Mornin’.” 

John checked his watch too. It was well and truly morning. He thanked Jacob and waited until he was out of sight.

“Shall we?” Sherlock threw back the covers and stood. His blue hospital gown was tented at the front and he collected up their clothes hurriedly. “Come along, John,” he urged as he disappeared through the door. John sighed. If there was an Omega chair in a hospital room, what on earth would be in a lounge?

 

*


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lounge comes equipped with sex toys. Of course. And there's breakfast and there's heading back to Baker street. Oh, and some more smut. Just a soupcon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this pile of smutty smutness with no redeemable value and probably cruelty to commas, I thank you from the bottom of my black, smutty heart. That is all. Please tell me what you think. <3

Part Four

 

**xi. Getting Warmer**

When John walked into the rather dimly lit room, Sherlock was sat in the middle of a large bed with a tray of food in front of him. He had a bottle of Ribena[1]in his hand and a sandwich in the other. Drip or no drip, he was ravenous. 

“They haven’t got tea, but there are other drinks over there,” Sherlock pointed out to John before he took a long swig from his bottle. 

“Look, let’s just have a sandwich, have a drink and go.” John selected a bottle of apple juice. “This place is weird.”

Sherlock did not verbally reply. He simply looked at his erection and at John’s, then raised an eyebrow. 

“It’s weird,” John repeated. “It’s like a bring-your-own knocking shop[2].” He took a long drink of the juice. “It’s a health centre for perverts. How do we know they’re not filming us, or something?” He walked over to the bed and sat primly on the edge.  

“My brother sent us here, John,” Sherlock said. “I hate to give him credit for anything, but if he sent us here it’s the best and most reputable place for us to be. We’re probably less likely to be filmed here than we are at Baker Street.”

“Wah?” John mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich.

“Well, just because I haven’t found Mycroft’s cameras doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

“Oh God,” John replied. He rubbed his eyes.

“I’m sure only Mycroft sees the footage. Or maybe his assistant. These crisps are lovely.” Sherlock looked at the bag. “Coronation chicken[3]. Whatever will they think of next?”

John’s complexion turned a little bit green. “Why did I fall for a man whose family has no sense of boundaries? Not that you do either. I expect your brother will send the footage to your mother and father. Or maybe some stills for the family album.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock said. “They have a live feed straight into their front room.”

John’s eyes flew open and he turned.

Sherlock grinned.

“Oh, you bastard.” John put his sandwich back on the tray. “You complete git.” He pounced on Sherlock and pushed him onto his back on the bed. “Want to play games with me? I’m going to make you scream.” John’s hands were inside Sherlock’s pants before he’d finished talking, and he gripped Sherlock’s cock with a firmer hand than was entirely comfortable.

Sherlock yelled. 

A smirk crossed John’s face before he ripped off his own y-fronts and sent them sailing over his shoulder. John yanked at Sherlock’s underwear, ripping the silk and exposing his erection. He threw his leg over Sherlock’s body. Slick seeped from him onto Sherlock’s penis, but he didn’t sink down. Instead, he pulled off his t-shirt and chucked it on the floor.

“Now, Mr Holmes, what would you like to say to me?” John’s hand was resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, his fingers sunk into tender muscles. 

“May we have sex?” Sherlock asked. “Please?”

“How about, ‘John, my friend, my love, my fucking bondmate, I’m sorry for making your brain bleed with visions of my family watching me fuck you. Please fucking forgive me’. That would be a start.” John’s slick ran over Sherlock’s testicles. 

“All of those things, I mean all of them,” Sherlock insisted. “Please, John.”

“Or, perhaps, ‘I’m sorry that you’re stressed about this situation, John. It was a shitty time to wind you up’.” John reached round to push his fingers into his own arse. His eyes fluttered shut. 

“It was a bad time and I really am very sorry.” Sherlock’s hand crept down to slyly caress his cock, but John noticed and growled. 

“Or, maybe, you could admit that you’re not the only one who can wind up their partner.” John’s mouth quirked into a smile and, in one smooth move, he sank down onto Sherlock’s erection.

Sherlock screamed. 

John rode him hard and fast, his knees dug into the mattress, his hands clasped with Sherlock’s. He sighed when he took Sherlock deeper and deeper and his sweat dripped from his skin. Sherlock’s penis thickened with the feral joy of John’s scent dripping on his chest. John’s natural lubricant dribbled between Sherlock’s arse-cheeks, and he wanted to feel it inside him. He needed to know what it was to absorb yet more of John Watson. 

“I want your fingers in me,” Sherlock said, his voice husky from silent shouts and gasps.  “Push your juices inside me.”

“Fuck, yes,” John agreed. He must have coated his fingers with his slick on the way because when they were pressed against Sherlock’s arse, they were cool and wet. “How’s that?” John asked when one finger breached Sherlock’s hole.

It felt odd. Sherlock’s eyes opened. Yes, he was stretched, but more than that the sensation of something pressed into that place, going the wrong way, was peculiar. 

“Bear down a bit,” John suggested. “And let me in.” 

Sherlock bore down and nodded when strange turned to something more.  John’s fingers only ghosted over his prostate, but it was enough. 

“More,” Sherlock demanded. John fucked himself on Sherlock’s dick with shallow, rolling thrusts, and, as he did, he slipped a second finger inside of Sherlock. The stretch wasn’t entirely pleasant. “More lube.” John’s fingers left Sherlock’s arse to gather more slick from where their bodies met. Another stretch but one smoother and less uncomfortable. John rolled his hips and coordinated his movements, so he thrust his fingers in when Sherlock’s cock sank into John’s body.

There, without the intoxicating red mist of the Alpha, Sherlock found pure bliss, surrounded by John Watson, inside and out. Their conjoined scent spiralled into the air between them. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, dismissed love as a weakness, but he wasn’t able to disregard the chemistry of his and John’s essence, which merged and made them both something different, something new. Sherlock met John’s eye, licked his own palm and took John’s cock in his hand. Seamlessly, he picked up John’s rhythm and Sherlock’s knot swelled as their words became broken, formless cries. 

“Oh!” With little warning, John’s eyes opened wide and he came in ragged spurts over Sherlock’s chest. His body crumpled into a graceless heap on top of Sherlock and he rolled them both onto their sides.

Knot still in place, Sherlock had not come. He nudged John in his arms. 

“Tired.” John nestled his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and closed his eyes. In seconds, his breaths had evened into little huffy snores. Sherlock pushed up his hips experimentally. “Sore.” John moaned. “No more.”

Sherlock’s heart broke. John Watson, the toughest, most perfect Omega Sherlock Holmes had ever met, was exhausted and sore from the ravages of heat. In the midst of it, he’d taken a trip to the hospital, and suffered embarrassment and discomfort. Sherlock’s penis throbbed and his backside spasmed at the loss of John’s ministrations, but he decided he was made of stronger stuff. He could control his desire. He closed his eyes and thought of the most unattractive thing he could, but still his dick remained stubbornly hard. He meditated. His cock didn’t shrivel a millimetre. Sherlock kissed John’s forehead and closed his eyes. Slowly, the sheer exhaustion of the day drifted Sherlock into uneasy sleep.

 

**

 

 **xii**.  **Warmer Still**

 

Sherlock was awoken to an insistent beeping noise. He opened his eyes. He was alone on a huge bed and the console by the door flashed. Sherlock pulled a sheet around himself and scrabbled on the bedside table for the remote. 

“Good morning, Mr Holmes and Dr Watson,” a bright, breezy female voice twittered into the room. “It’s time for breakfast. I’ll leave the trolley in the corridor.”

Sherlock was hungry, so breakfast earned a place in his immediate plans. More importantly, he was also desperate for a wee. He hobbled on stiff legs to a door to his left and was met by a wall of steam.

“John?” 

“Morning love,” John appeared in the fog sat in a very large bath. “How are you?” 

Sherlock fought with the sheet as he staggered to the loo and sighed with relief as he peed into the toilet bowl.

“Less than twenty-four-hours in and the romance is dead,” John said. His voice and expression showed clear amusement. 

“Don’t say that,” Sherlock said. “I’m not used to romantic attachments, but I will try.”

“Hey, hey, ignore me. I’m just joking, love. I’m a doctor and I’ve been in the army. There’s nothing you can do that I haven’t seen. And I’m rather touched that you weren’t hesitant; that you trust me. I’m just feeling perkier now I’ve had a good night’s sleep. Forgive me?” 

Sherlock nodded hesitantly. “Okay.” He finished weeing and washed his hands. “Breakfast has arrived. It’s in the hall.”

John got to his feet. “In that case, you climb in here. I’ll go get the breakfast and then come back with it.” 

“Is it hygienic to eat in the bath?”

“You’ve still got bloodstains on your chest.” John pointed to the marks and Sherlock looked down. “Oh, and a lovely crumbly spunk stain on your leg.” Sherlock lifted his leg. Flakes sloughed off onto the floor. “And, if we stay in here, I’ll call and ask for the sheets to be changed. That way, we start today clean and fresh.”

“So you’ve decided that we’re staying here, then?” Sherlock handed John a towel and watched as he wrapped it around his waist.

John grinned, his eyes sparkled. “I looked around while you were asleep. I’ve got a list of things we can try.” Sherlock blushed. His sexual confidence wasn’t genuine, especially free of the rut, but he wanted to be. He removed his sheet and passed it wordlessly to John, who gave him a soft kiss and chuckled as he left the room. 

The water in the bath was still warm. Sherlock ducked half his body beneath the fragrant surface, then submerged himself entirely. The silky water embraced him, wrapping him in velvety heat until he felt claustrophobic. Sherlock exhaled in a flurry of bubbles, then sat up. He picked out shampoo and shower gel from a collection of bottles on a low shelf, then soaped up his hair, face and body. Sherlock laid back into the clinging water and rinsed away the lather. Sherlock was clean and relaxed when John walked back in with the rattling breakfast trolley.

“I am famished.” John parked the trolley next to the bath and climbed back in. He sat, reached over to take cloches from plates and revealed two spectacular English breakfasts. Sherlock poured tea and they settled to eat.

“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten the bath before,” Sherlock mused.  “Although I have been high in the bath a few times and you can never tell. I once ate crisps out of a shoe when the bag ripped.”

“What flavour?” 

“Salt and vinegar. Cheese and onion would have been too cheesy.” John chimed in on the last two words. 

“I’ve eaten a lot of things out of a cup. And a mess tin. Shoe horns make decent spoons in a pinch.” John took a sip of tea. “And I’ve eaten in the bath and in the shower. Trickier in the shower. You have to hold your toast at arm’s length.”

“You’ve lived a hell of a life, John Watson.”. 

“I’ve fallen asleep a few odd places too.” John ducked his head and blushed. “Speaking of which…”

“You fell asleep on me last night.” 

“In more ways than one,” John said. “Look, I’m sorry I left you to sort yourself out.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You did sort yourself out, didn’t you?” 

“You were asleep on top of me. How did you think I was going to manage that?”

“Um, you could’ve jiggled a bit?” John looked at his mushrooms as if they were fascinating.  

“And you moaned and said you were sore and didn’t want to. In your rules, you said that you wouldn’t be manhandled. So, I didn’t.”

John put down his fork. He looked at his plate. If his voice was thick when he said, “Thank you,” Sherlock was willing to let it go. Just this once.

“Besides, what’s the point if you’re not with me?” Sherlock asked. “Speaking of which, I’m surprised your heat hasn’t driven you mad already.” John didn’t speak, he just took Sherlock’s hand and led it to his groin. His cock was hard beneath the warm water. “Ah. We’ll get on with eating, shall we?” 

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

For a few, long, comfortable moments, they just ate. And, when breakfast was done, they got up and out of the bath. John wheeled the trolley out while Sherlock brushed his teeth. And still, not a word was spoken. 

Sherlock walked back into the bedroom to find John stretched out on the bed. John’s lips tilted into a smile and he stroked his cock with a steady hand. Sherlock went to his side. He wore a towel stretched around his hips and his burgeoning erection had started to press against the terry cloth.

“What do have in store for me?” 

“For now, I just want to fuck.” John’s words were clear, but his tone betrayed his need. “Then we’ll play. But I need you now.” 

Sherlock climbed onto the bed and urged John to lift his legs and hips. Sticky slick oozed from John’s hole and, when Sherlock pushed a finger inside, he was open and ready. All the same, Sherlock pulled out and inserted two fingers. John’s body drew Sherlock in and in.  

“More.” John’s body undulated, and he raised an arm above his head.

Sherlock repositioned himself so both his legs were between John’s. When John called out, Sherlock pressed their lips together and swallowed his pleasure. In a matter of moments, John’s hole had loosened, and Sherlock pulled out and pushed three fingers back in. 

“I’m ready, Sherlock. Come on,” John urged.  

“And last night you were sore,” Sherlock replied against his lips. “There’s no reason to rush.”

John draped his arm across his eyes. As he finger-fucked him, Sherlock conducted an orchestra of bitten-off wails and liquid, slippery sounds. John’s desire created an Omega scent visible to Sherlock as a glowing, pulsing aura. He knew his own was similarly visible to John. They couldn’t hide from each other now, if they ever could. Sherlock withdrew his fingers and pressed in a fourth alongside the others. 

“Oh, you clever man,” John said. “I need more.”

Sherlock lowered his head and watched his fingers penetrate John’s body. He knew that nothing would quench John’s need until Sherlock pushed in his cock, knotted him and they both came. But the scientist in Sherlock was fascinated. He curled his thumb into the crease of his palm as he pressed in and the adjustment made John hiss.

“Yes,” John begged. “God, Sherlock, yes, yes.” More and more of Sherlock’s hand disappeared inside John.  

“I could get my whole hand in you, John.” Sherlock looked up. John’s lips moved without forming intelligible words. “Can I?” Sherlock asked. John nodded. 

Already, Sherlock could push in as far as his third knuckles. He slid his hand free and rubbed John’s slick over the entirety of his hand before he eased it back in. When Sherlock was engulfed to the furthest point, he twisted his hand, slipping it around the rim and, with just a little pressure, John’s body gave. Sherlock was in as far as the base of his thumb. 

When Sherlock looked up, John’s eyes were heavy-lidded. His breaths heaved in and out of his chest, and he struggled to focus enough to rub his cock.  John met his gaze when Sherlock slipped his hand out a little and gently manoeuvred it back to where it had been. With another twist, his hand sunk into John up to the wrist. A bolt of arousal shot through them both and the look they shared turned wide-eyed.

John, unable to do anything, let go of his cock, so Sherlock reached out with his free hand and worked it with efficient strokes. The firm flesh throbbed in Sherlock’s fist, while he moved his other, curled inside John, with gentle, rocking motions. Sherlock could barely take his eyes from the vision of his hand inside John, but when he looked up, unnerved by John’s silence, he found an equally arresting sight. John’s mouth was open, his eyes locked on the ceiling, unfocused and lost in sensation.

Soon it was Sherlock’s turn to look vacant. His jaw dropped when John’s body clenched hard around his fist and John howled. Thick jets of come spurted across John’s trembling body. Sherlock kept his hand inside still, but it wasn’t a choice. John arse clutched at Sherlock’s fist like a tight, velvet glove. John’s trembles turned to jagged shakes. When the sensations ebbed, John’s body relaxed but when they spiked, he came again and tightened around Sherlock’s hand. By the time his aftershocks ended, Sherlock’s hand physically hurt from the taut grasp of John’s body. 

“Relax, John.” Sherlock tried to move his hand.

“No, in, in, in.” John’s voice somehow came from a long way away, but his hand was firm when he reached down and tried to hold Sherlock’s hand inside.  “Please.”

“How about I shove my cock inside you now?” John’s body gave slightly and Sherlock edged his hand out little by little as he continued to speak. “How about I fuck you, John, knot you, come in you and make you climax all over again? Do you know what I want, John? What I think you want? What I’ve deduced? On the bedside table, there’s a butt-plug, a dildo, a bowl of mints and my phone. Once you’re full of my come, John, you want me to push in that butt plug to keep my seed inside you. When you’ve got me nice and ready, you want to fuck me. Fucking me with your fingers last night made you aroused. It made me aroused too, John. I loved it. I want you. And when you’ve come inside me too, I’ll be ready to fuck you again. With the dildo over there, you plan to fuck your spunk inside me, while I fuck you and fill you again until you can’t take anymore. Is that what you want, John?”  

“Yes, yes.” John made a strangled sound of loss when Sherlock’s fingers finally slipped free of his body. 

Sherlock’s now open, wet hand was brim-full of John’s slick and he used it to lube his cock. He lifted John’s legs beneath his arms, lined up his cock and drove inside. Still desperate, John’s heat-addled body convulsed around the new, welcome intrusion. Sherlock had almost come, untouched, from fisting John and now he _needed_. Immediately, he fucked John with a rapid rhythm. 

“Come on, Sherlock,” John told him. “Do it. Fuck me, just like you said. Have I told you hot it is that you just swore?” John lifted his legs up and around Sherlock’s body, crossing his ankles at the back “Don’t think I’ve heard you swear before. I almost came again when you said fuck.” 

Sherlock took his weight on his elbows, burrowed his forehead against John’s neck and quickened his movements. John’s cries shook with the speed of Sherlock’s thrusts and he came again. His release added to a growing pool of warmth between their bellies.

Sherlock’s knot formed so fast it almost made him dizzy. He huffed out heavy breaths with each rock of his hips, confined as they were by his knot that locked him into John. Sherlock heard wild, shapeless noises when he came, noises he suspected were his own. Involuntarily, his spine arched inward, his hands on the bed, arms locked, and body stretched, inverted. Sherlock’s cock pumped load after load of release deep into John’s body.  He shuddered, taut, for a moment, until his arms buckled, and John wrapped his arms around him.

 

 

*

  **xiii.**   **Hot Stuff**

 

The butt plug was huge. Well, Sherlock thought so when he grabbed it from where it was laid on the bedside table. It was heavy glass, curiously weighted heavier at the narrowed tip than the thick base.  

“I’m not sure this will stay in if you’re not on your front,” Sherlock observed.  

“We can sort that out in a bit,” John said. “Just figure out how you’re getting it in.”

“As soon as my knot’s gone down, you turn onto your belly and I’ll push it in.” Sherlock shifted his legs, so John could roll easier.  

“You’re almost out,” John said.  “I can feel leakage.” 

“Turn, turn!”

Sherlock aided John’s move onto this belly and then opened his arse-cheeks. John’s entrance was slightly slack and wet with come and slick. If he wasn’t so aroused, Sherlock would have been tempted to push his tongue inside John and taste their combined essence. Instead, he wiped a stray dribble onto the butt plug and slid it home.

“Guh, yes.” John clambered onto all fours. Sherlock tapped the end of the butt plug and smiled when John moaned. “By the way, you never deduced anything about the phone or the mints.” 

“Boring. I put my phone there, the person who changed the bedding put the mints there. I don’t know why. Still, my turn.” Sherlock grabbed lube and the slim dildo from the bedside table and plonked himself flat on his back on the bed. “Go on, then.”

“I really need to teach you about romance,” John said as he clambered to his knees. “There were much sexier ways of saying that.”

“John, my John.” Sherlock rapidly fluttered his eyelashes. “I beg, no, implore you to put your manly Omega penis into my bottom so I too can feel full of penile love.”

“Really?” John squeezed lube onto his palm and the tube made a farting noise. “I think I prefer the first version.”

“Of course. Is there a romantic way to say that I want your erect member in my bottom?”

“You could ask me to make love to you.” John slicked up two fingers.

 “But what does that mean?” Sherlock threw his hands up, even as John shoved a cushion beneath his hips. “Really? Dear person-I-love, please penetrate me in a manner consistent with reproductive intercourse, even though I, as an Alpha, am not able to get pregnant. Therefore, this merely parodies reproductive intercourse, though, since I have a prostate gland protruding into my anal canal, I can get pleasure from this and, of course, it symbolically means that I see myself not as your superior, but as your equal, as you are mine. So, by all means, if that’s what you wish to say, make love to me, John.” 

“Okay. I will.” John shoved a lubed finger up Sherlock’s arse.

“Cold,” Sherlock ground out. John wiggled his finger against Sherlock’s prostate. “Nevermind.”  

Inside, John circled his finger. Sherlock had observed that John’s cock was larger than the average Omega cock, but, even still, it wasn’t much thicker than the dildo laid on the bed. 

“I’ve never met an Alpha who wanted to be penetrated,” John mused. “Although, if this place keeps dildos the size of Omega cocks, it’s clearly not entirely out of the ordinary.” John crooked his finger and the response was swift. “Hello. Your winky’s started to pay attention.” 

“My what?” Sherlock lifted his head.

“Are you ready for more?”   

“Do it.” Sherlock clutched the bedsheets.

“Relax, love,” John tapped Sherlock’s clenched hand. “It’s no more than I had inside you last night.” 

Sherlock paused for a moment and then nodded. “Did you just call my Alpha manhood a ‘winky’?”

John grinned and, damn him, that made Sherlock laugh. While he was relaxed, he felt a slight stretch. He looked at John.

“Two fingers.” John smiled again. And, oh, there was love in that smile. Sherlock couldn’t resist responding in kind, and, Lord, if watched on they’d be hideously nauseated by the display. However, even in the blazing light of mutual affection, doubt crept in. Just a little bit.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Sherlock asked. “That I like the idea of you fucking me, I mean. You said you’d never known another Alpha who did. Would. Wanted.”

“Why would I mind?” John stroked a warm hand up Sherlock’s thigh, around his crotch and over his belly. “I’ve never fucked an Alpha. Never thought I would. Doesn’t mean I didn’t think about it though. Fantasise. It’s… good.” John licked his lips and then Sherlock absolutely knew that it was more than good. Whole screeds of text were contained in all the words John hadn’t said. Oh, and the word fantasise had been extremely telling. 

“I want to feel you come inside me. Hurry.” Sherlock put a hand against John’s cheek. “Have we ever discussed the effective systemic absorbency of rectal tiss..?”

“That’s a conversation for another time,” John interrupted. He moved his hand, another little stretch, thicker and deeper.

“Oh!” Sherlock’s eyes and mouth opened wide as a little spot inside him bloomed with warmth and arousal. “Do that again.” 

“Found your prostate properly then,” John remarked. He screwed his fingers inwards and Sherlock hung on as his nerve endings twanged.

“Yes!” Sherlock confirmed before he dragged John up the bed and held him close, so their faces were almost touching. “Stop faffing and penetrate me, John. If you don’t hurry, I’m going to pin you down and do it myself. Just. Fuck. Me.”

“Yes, sir,” John breathed and lifted Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders. 

The next thing Sherlock felt was a tender push, no pain, no drama, just a warm pressure in and in. When John was balls-deep Sherlock’s cock thickened in response. His arousal was maddening. An Alpha being fucked by an Omega had a ripple of deviancy that stirred Sherlock so much he dared not think of John coming inside him lest he lose control.  

“Ready?” John’s face shone with sweat and his eyes revealed unconcealed arousal.

“Ready,” Sherlock agreed. John eased his hips back slowly and then, as if his control had already ceased, he drove back in fast and deep.  “Yes, John.” Sherlock tensed as John’s cock found just the right spot. “There, again, please, again.” Sherlock was rewarded with another slow drag out and another deep, accurate thrust in. “I’ve wanted you to fuck me for so long. So long. Yes! Yes!” John rocked against that point of pleasure, and Sherlock grabbed and clutched any part of John he could reach. “It’s terrific, John. Your cock is perfect, perfect. Oh, yes, harder, John, please.” 

John’s thrusts turned shallower and faster. His bad arm trembled but he pressed his cock precisely against Sherlock’s prostate with each push and never faltered. “I’m sorry,” John moaned, and his forehead drooped to Sherlock’s shoulder. Their cheeks touched and found each other similarly sticky and heated.

Sherlock’s brain bubbled with the knowledge that when John came Sherlock’s body would absorb more little bits of his DNA. If there was anything Sherlock needed, it was more and more John Watson. His balls tightened and he squeezed the root of his cock to halt his impending knot and release. “Come inside me, John,” Sherlock whispered. “Fill me with you, John. Do you remember what comes next? You’re going to come inside me and then sink down on my cock and fuck your release, your DNA, John, into me. You’re going to fuck me in every way you can and I will love every single moment.”

“Fuck, Sherlock.” John’s voice was wrecked, and his arms collapsed in, then held, but only for a few fast heartbeats. “Ah!” John’s warm release gushed inside Sherlock and if felt utterly astonishing. They held each other as they rolled over and reversed their positions. John’s cock slipped free, but Sherlock was ready, and he pushed the slim dildo inside himself. His curious fingers discovered a button at the dildo's base, so Sherlock pressed it. A rumble of vibration was heard and then felt. And felt. Sherlock quickly turned it the thing off. He panted; his respiration had increased quite suddenly and rapidly. Sherlock knew he needed to calm down but slid the vibrator against his prostate all the same.

“How do you want me?” John’s voice told Sherlock his energy had clearly gone. Sherlock leant over and kissed him. John’s lips were warm and wet, and his tongue flicked against Sherlock’s in lazy circles. Sherlock smiled into the kiss and stroked John’s cheek. 

“We don’t have to continue if…”

“As great as that was, the raging bloody Omega in me wants your knot. So, you, Sherlock Holmes, need to do that.” John rolled onto his side. “Maybe you could lie behind me and just do it that way?”  

“Can you reach around me to the dildo?” Sherlock slid close to John’s back and his cock slipped between John’s arse cheeks. “Try and, oh!” John rotated the toy slightly. “Well, I think we can class that as a success.” 

“I might not have a lot of leverage,” John noted. He demonstrated that he couldn’t pull the dildo out far. It wouldn’t be a hard fuck but…

“The dildo vibrates, John. I think that will do the work for you adequately.” Sherlock slipped his fingers between the cheeks of John’s arse. The handle of the butt plug nestled there was slippery with slick that had leaked out around it. “Are you ready?” 

“Oh, hell, yes.” John lifted his uppermost leg and hissed as the plug was slowly drawn out of his body. Sherlock’s cock swiftly replaced it and went further, beyond where the shallow plug had been. “That’s the fucking ticket, love.”

“Uh, uh, oh.” The tightness around Sherlock’s cock was incredible. The earlier release and slick enveloped Sherlock’s flesh inside John’s arse, as though he was fucking liquid velvet. John’s body shuddered and contracted with pleasure; he’d started on a second orgasm almost as soon as Sherlock was sheathed inside. Their combined aroma was a symphony of want, of lust, and of need. 

“Gimme a minute.” John’s body shivered with ecstasy and his semen pulsed onto the bedclothes. Within moments of it ending, he shoved his hips back against Sherlock and muttered, “Move.”

“Turn on the vibrator.” Sherlock’s knot had swelled from just the pressure on his dick and his prostate. “I can’t hold on, John.” The vibrator’s effect was instantaneous; Sherlock’s hips shot forward and involuntarily rammed his cock into John as far as he could.

“Gah, yes, _yes_.” John’s eyes were firmly shut, the words forced out by Sherlock’s thrusts. He licked his lips between words. Sherlock’s forming knot pressed in and in, and John’s body capitulated with grasping contractions which drew Sherlock in even further. “Come,” John begged, and Sherlock’s body wanted to deliver. 

“Fuck me, John.” Sherlock pulled John’s top leg up, using it as a brace for him to thrust with fast, jagged movements. “Oh, there, there, there,” he cried out when John found that dangerous spot inside.

“Come on, Sherlock.” John’s voice was a gravelly, overused thing, desperate and beautiful. It betrayed all the vulnerability that John would not show. Not to Sherlock. Not to anyone. “You’re inside me, Sherlock, and I’m inside you. You need to come, love, please. For me.”

Sweat stung Sherlock’s eyes, but he blinked them open. John’s bond mark was red, swollen and damp with sweat, and Sherlock simply had to run his tongue over the salty, scented skin. The action destroyed his control. Sherlock’s hips pistoned in and out; his thrusts confident and deep until his knot sealed him inside and restricted his movements.

John worked the vibrator against Sherlock’s prostate with hard and then soft pressure. Heat spread from the spot, wrapped around Sherlock’s groin and his balls tightened. All Sherlock heard was the obscene wet slap of his body in and against John’s, the earlier release and lubricant being fucked in and out spilling over their bodies. 

“Bite me again,” John said. “I want you to.” Sherlock grazed his teeth along the old wound. John’s skin gave a little and left a coppery taste on Sherlock’s tongue. He yelled when his body was overtaken by another wave of pleasure. 

Sherlock held the vibrator against his own prostate until his hips jack-knifed and he came with a ferocity he’d never have believed possible. With shaky fingers, he pressed the vibrator in even more and held it firm as he throbbed out another orgasm. 

“God, John,” he said against John’s neck. “It’s almost too much.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” John reached around Sherlock’s body to ease out the vibrator and turn it off.

“In,” Sherlock moaned. His body felt boneless but now utterly empty. “In.” John pressed in a warm finger and even that made another softer wave of ejaculation.

“I can feel my spunk in you still,” John mused. “You’re sticky with it. I wish I could show you how good it feels to have an Alpha’s come inside you. But, you’re mine now. No Alpha sex for you.” John’s fingers felt cool on Sherlock’s overheated skin. Sherlock stroked John’s stomach, which was spattered with his own release. “I think we’re going to need the bed clothes changed again.”

Sherlock reached over to pick up his phone from the bedside table.

“Oi, no texting, wanker.” John tried to tap the phone from Sherlock’s hand. In doing so, he removed his hand from Sherlock’s bum and that disappointed them both.

“I don’t want to text,” Sherlock said as he held his phone out of John’s reach. “I wanted to see how much seminal fluid an Alpha in rut normally discharges in one sexual encounter with his Omega, John.” He spoke with the conviction of a man who assumed everyone would know why this was important.

“A lot.”

“But, once I knew that, John, then I’d look up how much lubricant an Omega produces. Then we’d know how much stuff you’ve got inside you.”

“Why would I care, Sherlock? I know it’s enough to be a bit uncomfortable. Do I need to know more?”

“But then we’d know if you could take even more, John.” 

John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. “I need to stop this line of thought before you treat me like I’m a sodding water balloon for you to investigate.” 

“You just said that it feels good to have an Alpha’s release inside you.” Sherlock sounded petulant he knew, but why didn’t John _understand_?

“Yes, it does, but I don’t want to be an experiment, Sherlock, I want you to do this because you care for me.”

“And I do,” Sherlock said, hurt. “I will always. I just wondered, that was all.”

“Well, you can keep on wondering, sunshine.” John wriggled. “I feel full, Sherlock, and it’s fine, but I don’t know that I’d want more. I’m too bloody old and grumpy to do things that are going to make me unhappy just for my partner’s benefit.”

Sherlock paused. What John had said made all sorts of sense. It made him sad that perhaps John once had done things that made him unhappy for the people he loved. Sherlock was determined not to do that to John, especially now they were bonded. Things had to change. They already had. Sherlock didn’t want John not to enjoy what they did. This relationship stuff was going to be a negotiation; a democracy, not a dictatorship.

“I agree, John,” Sherlock said. “I apologise. I will no longer try to gauge the capacity of sexual fluids you can retain during intercourse.”

“Never say that sentence to me ever again,” John said. “If you do, there won’t be any more sexual intercourse. But, maybe, we could compromise?”

“How?” 

“You could grab that bowl of mints on the side, empty out the sweets and see if we fill it. Film it, if you like.” 

“I love you, John.” Sherlock kissed his cheek, reached for the bowl, put it between them and then fiddled with his camera. So, intent was he on the science, he almost missed it when his penis slipped from John’s body in a rush of liquid. The bowl, which was larger than it needed to be for sweets, had shallow sides and a wide base and it quickly started to fill. 

“It’s not the best vessel.” Sherlock watched the action through his phone screen. “Hard to gauge volume. I may have to steal the bowl.”

John huffed a laugh into the crook of his own arm. “Feels weird too.” 

“Your body is remarkable, John,” Sherlock said as the last dregs dripped into the bowl. “A lesser man would have been in some discomfort. But you, Dr Watson, are a stalwart.” 

“A stalwart of spunk retention. Lovely.” 

“Fascinating.” Sherlock ceased filming and tried to carefully lift the bowl. The contents sloshed over the sheets and over John’s bottom.   

“Is that what I thought it was?” John asked.

“Hmmm.”

“If we leave this place now, does that mean neither of us have to sleep in the wet patch?”  John levered his body off of the bed. 

“I expect we could just ask someone to come and deal with it,” Sherlock said. “We can have fun in that enormous bath again.”  

“You run the bath, I’ll call for service,” John replied. He sat up and pulled a face when he did. “Sometimes, gravity is a complete bastard.”

When Sherlock stood and walked towards the bathroom, he was momentarily halted by the sensation of John’s release leaking from him. He turned and noticed John looking. John winked and Sherlock blushed.

 

**

**xiv. A Different Kind of Heat**

Sherlock liked to think of himself as a man whose mind ruled his body. However, his body had other thoughts. Sherlock’s thighs throbbed. His back was sore. His arms hurt like the very devil. Sherlock’s shoulders were stiff, achy and made appalling noises. His neck was agony and it felt as though someone had dragged him around by the penis for the best part of a week. Even unlocking the door of the 221B was excruciating. Yet Sherlock knew all of this was probably better than how John felt. 

“Go have a bath, I’ll order takeaway,” John said. 

“No, _you_ have a bath and _I’ll_ order takeaway,” Sherlock replied. “I think you deserve the first of the hot water.”

“You don’t have to defer to me like I’m weaker, y’know.” John closed his eyes and sighed. “But I’m taking advantage and definitely having the first bath, right?” He surreptitiously picked up the jar of salt from the kitchen and took it with him.  

“Of course,” Sherlock answered. He picked up his phone and ordered Chicken Bhuna, Murgh Bemisal, mushroom rice, pilau rice and Kingfisher beer. He and John had already discussed the benefits of foods that aided digestive transit without too much pain and medium-hot curry had ended up on top of the list. Sherlock walked through to his bedroom and changed into his pyjamas. He’d taken a shower before they’d left the ABO Health Centre; the baths were purely for comfort’s sake. If his had to wait until the morning, he decided it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. He picked up John’s laptop and checked his emails.  

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was muffled, but Sherlock followed it as far as the bathroom door. Despite their familiarity over the past few days, he paused before walking in on John now they were back at Baker Street. 

“John?” Sherlock called through the door.

“Well come in, then!” Sherlock entered. John was sat in a cloud of fragrant bubbles looking forlorn. He held a bottle of shampoo, which he handed to Sherlock. “I can’t lift my arms,” John said. “They hurt too much.” 

“Is your hair wet?” Sherlock hadn’t even looked at John properly, so discomforted he was by everyday nudity.

“Are you saying my hair looks like this normally?”

Sherlock looked at John’s head. His hair was stuck to John’s scalp like a second skin. It was clearly very wet indeed. “Fine,” he said and poured some shampoo into his palm. “Ready?” 

“Of course,” John grumbled. He leant forward and put his forehead to his knees. Sherlock bent over and started to smooth the liquid over John’s hair. He worked it into bubbles and massaged John’s scalp with his fingers. “God, that feels nice.” Sherlock carried on washing. He used the lather to rub the tense muscles in John’s neck and then shoulders. “Fuck me, if you’re trying to seduce me, you’ve already done it. Not that you’re getting anything tonight, boy-o.”

“I thought you’d feel achy.” Sherlock dropped his hands. “I do. Feel achy, that is.” 

“Been a long three days.” John looked up. “I reckon you’ve seen me at my best and worst and everything in between.” 

“I’m sure the same is true of me. I’ve not always acted as you’d have liked.” 

John shrugged. “I’ve never met someone who does.” 

“It seems weird. Here. Like we’re different.”

“We bonded here, Sherlock. I propositioned you here. We had our first sex downstairs. We’ve been us here. Besides, we’ve been eye-fucking each other for years.”

“That sounds unpleasant,” Sherlock noted with a smirk. 

“You know what I mean. Are you going to rinse this shampoo or what?” 

The doorbell rang.

“Food or rinsing?”

“Food. Then come back. I think I can rinse, but I’m not sure I can get out of the bath.” John looked up at him, his hair lathered into a point, like Mr Whippy ice-cream.

“Sounds fair,” Sherlock replied. He didn’t tell John he wasn’t sure if he had the strength to carry the takeaway upstairs, let alone lift him out of the bath. But, hell, Sherlock _loved_.

 

**

 

 

**xv. Renewable Energy**

 

John Watson liked to think he was a pragmatic, capable man. However, he’d woken up paralysed. Or maybe he just hoped that paralysis would take hold and cut off the pain he felt, oh, everywhere. 

“John?” Sherlock’s voice filtered from the bathroom into the bedroom. “Are you awake?” 

John considered pretending to be asleep. However, since Sherlock had pretty much carried John to bed last night, it seemed mean to do so. John pushed himself up with protesting arms. “Coming,” he called out.

He didn’t pause at the bathroom door. As a former soldier and a doctor, John’d seen all manner of nudity and knew there was nothing about Sherlock’s body that scared him. Okay, maybe the elbows. They’d turned out to be quite pointy and proddy in the night. Everything else was fine.

Sherlock sat in the bath. He’d used far too much bubble bath and the water had made his pale skin pink. 

“What’s up?” John asked.

“I wanted to wash my hair but, well.” Sherlock attempted to reach for the shampoo and winced. His muscles visibly contracted, and his arms fell with a splash and flutter of bubbles. “Do you see?” 

John nodded. “Best get you washed then.” He put his hand on Sherlock’s head and pushed him beneath the water. Sherlock sat back up with a splutter and a moan and waterfall of exhaled suds.  John grabbed the shampoo. That hurt. John pretended it didn’t. He trickled shampoo into his palm, rubbed his hands together and then rubbed them over Sherlock’s head. He then spent four minutes giving Sherlock a mohawk, a kiss-curl and then a Mr Whippy swirl and point. John dashed out to get his phone. By the time he was back, Sherlock had rinsed away the evidence.

“Spoil-sport,” John huffed and took a picture anyway.

“Can you help me out?” Sherlock asked. He had just one eye open, the other was hidden behind a bubbly eye-patch.

“’Course.” John put his hands under Sherlock's arms and dragged him, unceremoniously, to his feet. “You’ve made me wet.”

“Not the first time.”

John chuckled. “You know, I rather like you, Mr Holmes.” He pulled Sherlock towards him for a long, lingering kiss.  

“And I you.” Sherlock rubbed his nose against John’s. “Did I tell you that Mummy’s been on the phone?” 

“No. What for?” 

“Mycroft told her I’d had unprotected sex with an Omega.” John helped Sherlock out of the bath. “Of course, she deduced it was you. Wanted to know when you were going to have a pregnancy test.”

“Ah. We never really spoke about that, did we?” 

“No.” Sherlock shrugged. “The chances of you falling pregnant are quite low since this was your first…” Sherlock’s face went a bit pale. “Too early to say,” he said, eventually. “Although the likelihood will increase down to the quantity…”

“You think you can work it out?”

“Hmm.” Sherlock gave John a steady kiss. He sucked John’s lower lip into his mouth and worried it gently with his teeth before he released it. “Give me half an hour.”  

John knew he’d never have the delight of telling Sherlock they were to be fathers. Sherlock would deduce it long before he did. But, what the hell? John _loved_.  

 

***

 

[1]Do other places have Ribena? It’s a blackcurrant juice cordial favoured by children and adults alike. Along with tea, Marmite and crumpets, Ribena is a national institution.

[2]Not sure if other nations use the expression ‘knocking shop’, which is essentially slang for a brothel. Apparently, some of the youth of the nation also use this term for a house where you can go to have sex with your partner beyond the gaze of worried parents. Think an older sibling’s house or somewhere. I never did anything like that. I am as pure as the driven snow, as you can imagine.

[3]If you don’t have Coronation chicken in your country, demand it. Here’s an easy recipe: <http://allrecipes.co.uk/recipe/1237/easy-coronation-chicken.aspx>. Don’t put sultanas in it. Ever. Oh, and Walkers are doing a limited-edition/promotional coronation chicken packet of crisps (potato chips) this year. They are like heaven in a packet.

**Author's Note:**

> Blinded: Mary is told that while pregnant she will be more susceptible to John's heats. She comes home one day to find John mid-heat. She has bought an enormous dildo and, despite his misread protestations, she uses it on John. Afterwards, she realises what she's done and feels like a complete cow. She was just overtaken by the hormones.


End file.
